


Unrehearsable

by Dragonbat



Series: Locked-Verse [4]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Ableist Language, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, Drama, F/M, Gotham City Police Department, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 341,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonbat/pseuds/Dragonbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne wants to return to the cowl. With his identity public knowledge, he has only one choice if he wishes to regain official sanction: succeed at the police academy and become deputized. It's not going to be easy, particularly when old and new foes await him at every turn!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Setting Sail

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: Some ableism and talk of rape in later chapters (Specifically, I'm referencing Identity Crisis and why Doctor Light was mindwiped. There's nothing graphic, but it's pretty obvious what's being discussed.). I will be placing additional notes on the specific chapters where the instances occur.
> 
> You took a step
> 
> The world came crashing down on you
> 
> And what you feared the most of all happened
> 
> Well, now you've come to.
> 
> Welcome to the world
> 
> Welcome to the world at last...
> 
> ...There's music like nothing you've heard...
> 
> If you just let it play
> 
> There are glasses to raise in the praise of surviving the day
> 
> For life is clearly something that I can't rehearse
> 
> It's dangerous and beautiful and free as verse...
> 
> —Lynn Ahrens, "Welcome to the World"
> 
> A/N: This is installment number four of the "Locked-Verse." Other stories in this AU include, in chronological order, Locked Inside the Facade, Lost to the Night, and The Way Back. Canon-compliant until most of the way through Countdown to Infinite Crisis. Shortly after the Sacrifice arc, events took a rather drastic turn in a different direction.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!
> 
> A/N: GED essay questions taken from the GEDpreparation wikispace accessed April 2, 2012. "Welcome to the World" written by Lynn Ahrens and Michael Flaherty. Recorded by Roger Rees on the A Man of No Importance original cast album (Warner Chappell, 2002). "Risk" written and recorded by Paul Brandt on his Risk album (Brand-T, 2007).
> 
> Please note that the views expressed by the characters in this chapter do not necessarily reflect my own, but I believe that they are true to the way the characters have been canonically portrayed.

_I guess I could just play it safe_  
and forget about love, hope and faith,  
with my eye on the shore line,  
keeping my boat tied and staying home,

_ohhh but I'll never discover new land_   
_by keeping my feet on the sand_   
_No I'd rather set sail_   
_and get carried away by the storm._

— _Paul Brandt, "Risk"_

**Unrehearsable**

**Prologue—Setting Sail**

Dick had been gone for over an hour, but Bruce still hadn't moved from his seat in the Cave. He was replaying the events of the last few hours. It had been almost like old times: Tim captured, him and Dick working together to find Joker's newest hideout, rescue Tim and take down Joker and Harley. For a few hours, at least, it had almost seemed like the last three years hadn't happened.

Reality had come crashing back, as it always did. It wasn't like old times. After losing Alfred and Jason, after two years in Arkham, and now, after having spent nearly eight months as an out-patient, this wasn't old times.

It was ironic. He had spent most of his adult life creating a world where he could anticipate most situations and plan for most outcomes—only to have situations blow up in his face and find himself forced to deal with outcomes he'd never planned for. His secret identity was a thing of the past now, and at the hearing last July, the judge had been clear: if he resumed his vigilante activities while he was under the authority of the Gotham Mental Health Authority, he would be returned to Arkham forthwith. He'd hated it, but he'd been resigned to waiting out the year.

That is, until Joker had captured Tim, threatening to kill him if "the one true Batman" didn't come looking for him. Bruce let out a long breath. Commissioner Sawyer had once offered to deputize him, so that he'd be freer to act in a situation like that. He'd even gone so far as to discuss the specifics with her, but reconsidered when he'd found out that he would need to carry and use a gun. He had actually been calling her back to tell her that he couldn't accept those terms, when Joker had issued his ultimatum. And suddenly, the offer he'd seen as a net to snare him had become a lifeline. One night. One chance. He could do everything he needed to get Tim to safety—except wear the suit—but in return, he'd had to agree to go through Police Academy training. And Sawyer wasn't likely to extend the offer again if he reneged.

Well, he'd taken the lifeline. Now, he had to take the consequences that came with it. He looked at the gun on the table again. Tonight, he'd finally loaded it. It hadn't been easy. He hated guns with a passion. Recently, he'd come to accept that he feared them too, although he was working on that. At least, when the mission required it, he could work past the fear. Harley pulling a rifle on him earlier tonight hadn't fazed him. Certainly, he'd never frozen in costume. If anything, he'd relied on the Bat-persona, his rage, and his training to get him through that. He wouldn't have those resources at the academy.

Bruce frowned. Then he reached for the box of ammunition and deliberately placed one round into the magazine. He turned his attention inward. His heart was beating a bit faster, but it wasn't the loud thudding in his chest that had afflicted him the first time he'd tried the exercise. His hands felt cold, but they weren't sweating. He loaded the second round, noting with a pang that it was easier. He winced. Did he really want this to _get_ easier? He set his jaw. Easier, yes; unthinking, no. He never wanted to forget that a slight pressure on the trigger was all it would take to rob a family of a parent, a sibling, a child... No, a bit of reluctance wasn't a bad thing, so long as it didn't interfere with his ability to get the job done. _So long as nobody died trusting him because his reluctance cost him a few crucial seconds._ He closed his eyes, wondering whether Dick had gone through anything similar during _his_ academy days, knowing that he must have.

He took a deep breath and finished loading the magazine. Then he slid it into the Beretta, aimed the gun at the cave wall and held it for a moment, before he lowered his arm and released the magazine. He repeated the exercise another five times, enough to know that his earlier success hadn't been some sort of fluke; enough to know that he really _could_ do this.

Then he went upstairs to check on Tim.

* * *

Raven had done her work well. As he looked down on the sleeping young man, Bruce noted that Tim's breathing was deep and regular, with no trace of the wheeze he'd shown earlier. Bruce had no doubt that the bruises and broken bones were similarly healed. For an instant, in the dim light that filtered in through the venetian blinds, the youth looked again like the thirteen-year-old boy who had come into his life more than six years earlier.

Bruce smiled. He was free and Tim was alive. If the price he had to pay for those two achievements was having to dance to Sawyer's tune for awhile, it was worth it. He resolved not to discuss that cost with Tim, though—and he hoped the others would do the same.

He closed the door quietly and headed for the nursery.

Helena was sleeping peacefully, her expression angelic. Bruce was hard-pressed to connect the vision before him now with his memory of the screaming toddler he'd left behind earlier in the evening. Selina had evidently been right: she had settled down once she knew that he'd left—it was only while he was _leaving_ , while there was still a chance that he'd change his mind, that she was prone to tantrums. He reached out to brush a stray dark curl away from her face, but thought better of it. He didn't want to wake her... much. No. No, Selina would kill him, and he hadn't just survived Joker and Harley to be murdered by one of his allies.

She was waiting in the hallway when he shut the door silently behind him. "Everything okay?"

Bruce nodded. "How long did it take her to settle down after I left?"

Selina shrugged. "About a minute to stop howling... A little longer to stop sniffling. Pretty typical for a twenty-two-month-old, I'd say."

"I'll take your word for it," Bruce said, shaking his head. "Until now, the children I've raised have been a bit older when they came into my life." His eyes flicked to the nursery door for a moment. "Are the terrible twos going to be as... difficult as billed?"

Selina laughed. "Bruce, my dear, I think you'll find that our daughter is a bit advanced for her age. She's already _in_ them. And so far, you're handling them just fine."

"Right," Bruce muttered, "If 'just fine' means second-guessing myself at every turn, trying to find a balance between accepting her... level of maturity for what it is and testing whether she's capable of more, getting it wrong more often than ri—"

Smiling, Selina pressed her fingers to his lips. "Bruce... um... that's called parenthood. Nobody gets it exactly right all the time, but between the two of us, I really think we're doing a decent job."

"But..."

"Trust me." Her green eyes sparkled as she took his arm and half-pulled, half-steered him away from the nursery door.

* * *

"Bruce sounded... good tonight," Barbara remarked, as Dick walked into her workroom. "Like old times kind of good."

Dick sat down next to her at the console. "Yeah, but it's not old times," he pointed out. "How long ago did you make that coffee?" He asked, gesturing toward the nearly-full carafe on the back counter.

Barbara looked at the time. "Maybe a half-hour ago," she said slowly. "Maybe more... I don't know. Try it, and if it's no good, you can put a fresh pot on; I might be up for a while." She sighed. "The JSA is fighting off an extra-terrestrial force in Reykjavik, of all places. Don't those clowns know that everybody who's anybody invades New York or Metropolis?"

Dick shrugged. "Maybe they're trying to be trendsetters," he said, getting up again. He poured a cup of coffee, took a tentative sip, shrugged, and walked back to the console with it. "Bruce is going to have a time of it, you know."

Barbara frowned. "I saw the deputization order; it looked fine to me. You don't mean to say he forged it?"

Dick blinked. "You really don't know...?" He shook his head. "No, you wouldn't; it's not like it's been broadcast all over the internet. No, the order's legit, but..." He let out a long breath. "You know how Sawyer's been trying for months to get Bruce onboard?"

"Yeah..."

As Dick continued to explain, Barbara's eyes widened. "He's got to go through the _academy_ training? _All_ of it?"

"If he passes the tests, he doesn't have to take the courses," Dick said, "but yeah."

"So that whole 'I'm-afraid-of-guns' confession yesterday..." Barbara said, shaking her head. "He's going to have to qualify with a firearm, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Hooboy."

"On the plus side," Dick said, "he was able to load it tonight. That's more than he could do yesterday."

"Yeah, but is it going to be enough?"

"I don't know," Dick said heavily. "I... I just don't know."

Barbara regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then her lips curved in a half-smile, as she leaned over and patted his hand. "Hey," she said brightly, "this could end up being something positive for him. And if not... it's just until the hearing, right? That's less than five months away."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, " _if_ he can pass the psych evaluation."

"Right." Barbara thought for a moment. "Do you remember the kinds of questions they asked _you_?"

Dick closed his eyes. "Some of them, but Babs, that's going back almost five years." He made a face. "It felt like they grilled me for hours—about the only thing missing was the bright lights."

"Did the BPD use a lie detector? I know we do here."

Dick nodded. "That's another thing; Bruce taught me how to fool one, but with everything else he's been through recently, I don't know if his bio-control is up to that."

Barbara lifted her eyebrows. "Who says it has to be?"

"What?"

"Seriously, Dick. What happens if he just tells them the truth?"

Dick gave her a horrified expression. "But they'll..."

"What? Find out he's Batman? Was Batman. Is Batman... I... You know what I mean. It's _not_ some deep dark secret anymore, Dick. It's the reason Maggie wants him in the first place!"

Slowly, Dick smiled. "We're still going to have to coach him, you know. And probably be prepared to get interviewed ourselves."

Barbara shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "It's not like I didn't go through it with you, you know." She grinned. "We'll call Daddy in the afternoon. I bet between the three of us, we can put together a pretty good picture of what Bruce is going to be up against."

* * *

It never mattered what time he went to bed. When the sun came up, so did Jim Gordon. Usually, he could still go back to sleep for a bit—when you'd served years, first as a cop and then later as commissioner of police, you learned to take naps when you could and be awake when you had to be. Over the last few weeks, however, something had changed.

He walked over to the computer and nudged the mouse to deactivate the screensaver. He looked at the window open on the screen and smiled.

_I wasn't sure if you'd be on this early_ , he typed.

_The old rooster crowed nearly an hour ago_ , the reply came back a moment later. _Chores don't do themselves._

Jim smiled. _I guess you have your son to thank for returning that rooster. Not to mention the rest of the coop. For a while there, I didn't think Bruce would ever get the feathers out of the machinery._

There was a pause, while the image of a writing quill appeared in the Skrype window.

_Actually,_ a blushing emoticon appeared in the text box, _the rooster is an antique alarm clock on my night table. My day starts before his does. But I'm used to that. How's your daughter these days, Jim?_

Gordon smiled. _Thrilled that I finally let her get this program onto my machine._ He hesitated. Tone didn't always come across well in the written word. _She thinks you're a good influence on me. Well, that or she's hoping for more of those sunflower cookies..._

There was a pause. Then the quill began to write again. _As it happens, I was planning to do some baking today. Suppose I send a batch your way and you can share them out?_

Jim shook his head smiling. _Martha, I hope you know I wasn't hinting at anything. I wouldn't want you to go to all that trouble._

This time, Martha Kent's response wasn't long in coming. _Oh, poppycock. The recipe will give me more than I could possibly eat on my own. I'm glad to send them off to folks who will enjoy them._

Jim's smile widened as he replied. _Well, if you're sure._ He hesitated. Her quill was moving again as he added, _I can't help wishing you could bring them in person._

The quill stopped. Then it started again. _Planting season, I'm afraid. I have good help, but I still like to keep an eye on things. It would be nice, though, if you could come out here some time. How long until Bruce's situation gets sorted out?_

Jim sighed. _Some time in July, as I understand it._

_Oh. Well, five months isn't really that long._

Jim chuckled. He could almost hear her voice saying the words. _It won't be, when we look back on it. Right now, though..._

_Yes. Well, I suppose I'd best check the hens. You have yourself a good day, Jim. Talk tomorrow?_

He smiled. _You too, Martha. Later._

He got up from the computer, musing that if things continued this way, between the two of them, Barbara Gordon and Martha Kent might just manage to drag him into the twenty-first century.

* * *

Cass was facing her worst opponent ever. Give her Joker. Give her Lady Shiva. Give her David Cain, even. Instead, she sat staring at a blank Word document. She looked at the list of essay topics on the sheet of paper next to the mouse pad.

**What are the characteristics of a true friend?**

**Do you think boys or girls have it tougher in the world?**

**What kind of animal makes the best pet?**

Cass rolled her eyes. These questions were... not exactly stupid, but not _smart_ either. She read on. Then she blinked. That couldn't be... she must have misread. No, she wasn't wrong. The next question really was, ' **Should the death penalty be mandatory for people who kill other people?** '

Her mouth went dry. She couldn't answer that! She didn't have to, though, she realized a moment later. There was going to be a choice of topics for the essay section. She didn't have to answer this one—not even if it was on the real test.

She looked at the Word document.

_The characteristics of a true friend are_ , she began. She hesitated. _Loyalty_ , she typed after a pause. She closed her eyes. _Also they should be kind. They should have,_ she read it over. This was... boring.

She sighed.

_When a person kills_ , she typed slowly, _we say he or she is a murderer. When a court kills, we say they do justice. But a court is still only people and people can make mistakes._

_Sometimes, a person can kill by mistake. It is an accident. They do not mean it. But the other person is still dead. The person who killed by mistake should be punished. But killing them does not bring back the person they killed._

Her hands were shaking, she realized. But the thoughts wouldn't stop coming.

_If we say that a person who kills, even by accident, must get the death penalty, what do we do if the people in the court are wrong? If they make a mistake and the wrong person is killed, should we kill the judge or the_... she hesitated, trying to remember the right word... _jury who had them killed?_

_On television, when there is a trial, I hear people say that the defendant should get the death penalty. They say he or she should pay. They even say that he or she should die. But they never say kill. They never say that we should kill the defendant. I think because even if a person deserves to die, nobody really wants to be a murderer. Because becoming a murderer kills a part of you too._

_If the court gives the death penalty, it makes it easier. Because the judge does not hold the weapon that kills. The person who gives the death penalty is often not in the room with the person getting it._ She knew as much from the movies. _Because of this distance it is easy to forget that we are taking a life. A life has value. The life of the person who died has value. But the life of the person who killed also does. Maybe some people do deserve to die. I don't know. But I do know that nobody deserves to become a killer. Our lives have too much value for that._

Cass let out a long breath and hit the 'print' button. Tomorrow, she would show this to Doctor Arkham. She hesitated, then reread what she had written. She didn't _think_ she'd given away anything that would reveal her as Batgirl, but maybe she should show it to Barbara first. Just in case.

* * *

"You seem somewhat perturbed, Doctor Cinar," Commissioner Sawyer remarked.

The police psychiatrist's frown had deepened as their conversation had progressed. "I don't understand what you're trying to pull," he said flatly. "You know Wayne's history. He's aggressive. Violent, even. More worrying, he's spent two years in Arkham. And you want me to certify him fit for duty so we can stick a gun in his hand and a badge on his shirt?"

"Anger can be managed," Sawyer pointed out. "Aggression channeled. And he _was_ in Arkham for two years, yes. He's out now. Frankly, we can use his expertise."

"Then bring him in as a consultant. Let him teach advanced classes. But fieldwork?"

"Are you refusing to administer the evaluation, Doctor?"

Cinar shook his head. "No, Commissioner," he said formally. "You want him tested, I'll test him. But I can tell you right now that I'm not going to rubber-stamp my approval, just because you think he has what it takes. He's going to have to convince _me_ , first. And let me assure you, Sawyer, that's going to be no easy matter."


	2. 1. On Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a few choice words about the Gotham City Police Academy screening process and how much fun it can be. Meanwhile, the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors has enlisted one of Bruce's chief detractors to try to keep him from returning to public life. She has a few ideas of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Special thanks to PJ and associates for assistance with police vetting policies and procedures.
> 
> "Life Goes On" written by Leann Rimes, Desmond Child, and Andreas Carlsson. Performed by Leann Rimes on her Twisted Angel album (Curb, 2002).
> 
> The Sissy Porter kidnapping and its aftermath occurred in Batman: Venom (Legends of the Dark Knight Nos. 16-20), by Dennis O'Neil, Russell Braun, and Trevor Von Eeden (1991).

_It's a fact, once you get on board_  
Say good-bye cause you can't go back  
Oh it's a fight, and I really want to get it right  
Where I'm at, is my life before me  
And this feelin' that I can't go back

— _Leann Rimes, Desmond Child, Andreas Carlsson, "Life Goes On"_

**Chapter 1—On Board**

Jim Gordon, seasoned police officer and former Gotham City police commissioner, looked from his daughter to Dick, and then back to his daughter once more. "No."

Barbara blinked. "Dad?"

"Out of the question," he confirmed. "No."

"It's just an interview!"

"I know what it is!" Jim shot back. "I used to work background investigations in Chicago. And frankly, I have no intention of being on the receiving end of one." He gave Dick a meaningful look. "I was always glad that at the time that you applied to the B.P.D., you and I didn't have what you would call a working relationship—at least not a known one, so they never thought to call me on your behalf. I went through _one_ of those interviews when I first joined the force, and I never plan to again." He looked away. "Sorry, Dick, but being submitted to cruel and unusual punishment is _your_ bailiwick, not mine!"

Dick and Barbara exchanged glances. "Was yours that bad?" he asked her.

Barbara shook her head. "No, but I think they were easier on me for a few reasons. That officer who interviewed me... Charry? Charro? Chiarello— _that_ was the name—he was Gotham when he started."

"Maury Chiarello?" Gordon perked up at that. "Small world. Yeah, he worked property crimes. Sergeant, I think. Joined the FBI around the time I made captain," he chuckled. "So he ended up in Bludhaven after that, huh? I'm surprised he remembered me."

"Well, he did," Barbara replied. "The first thing he asked me was whether you and I were related, and from that point on, it was smooth sailing. Between that and," she sighed, "much as I hate it, I think they took one look at the chair and decided to be gentle with me."

Gordon frowned. "You went all the way to Bludhaven? I would have thought that given your circumstances... I mean..." His gaze shifted involuntarily away from her face, toward the wheelchair.

"It was an option," Barbara nodded coolly. "But I wasn't looking for special treatment. Besides," she smiled at Dick, "it wasn't like that was the _only_ thing I did in Bludhaven that day."

"Ah, I see." Gordon's lips twitched. "Well," he sighed, "I guess whatever they put us through will be only a fraction of what they do to Bruce. Does he know what he's letting himself in for?"

Dick frowned. "He thinks so. He knows he has to pass the psych evaluation. As far as what that's going to entail..." he shook his head. "I tried to warn him. I think he's been working on the whole gun issue like it's the only thing to worry about. Come to think of it," he winced, "I don't think Bruce showed up for _my_ background check. Alfred did, of course."

At Jim's incredulous look, Dick only shrugged. "He didn't want me to be a cop. He didn't sabotage me, but he didn't want to make it easier, either. And yes, they asked me if I had any idea why he hadn't accepted their invitation."

"You're lucky they took you," Jim said. "Sometimes, the investigators can get a bit twitchy about things like that."

Dick shrugged again. "Bruce's history isn't that hard to research. I explained to them that, after what happened to his parents, he didn't want me facing down armed criminals. It was more or less the truth."

"Even so..." Jim started. "Ah well," he let the matter drop, "by the time they start talking to family, it's pretty much a formality. They like to start with people on the periphery and work their way in." He took off his glasses and fiddled with the earpiece. "How many people connected you to Bruce once you got into the academy?"

Dick blinked. "No clue. I mean, I didn't flaunt the relationship, but I didn't bother hiding it either. Bruce taking me in is pretty much common knowledge in Gotham. I knew it was going to come up in a background check, so I never saw the point of hiding it."

Jim frowned. "Did anyone make an issue over it?"

"After the interview process?" Dick shook his head. "Not until Bruce got framed for murder, and I sort of left myself wide open for that when I arranged to drive the prisoner shuttle from the 'Haven to Gotham, just so I could talk to him."

"You were more fortunate than you realize," Jim said darkly. "I don't know if you noticed, but there aren't too many billionaires' kids signing up to become LEOs. Now," his eyebrows knit together, "while hazing is officially off-limits," he took a soft cloth out of his breast pocket and began cleaning the lenses, "there's nothing in the books about some not-so-good-natured ribbing. He's rich, he's high-profile, and he's a former vigilante. Not to mention that Sawyer's giving him the kid-gloves treatment. The rest of them aren't exactly going to roll out the red carpet and slap him on the back."

Dick blinked. "You don't think Bruce can take it?"

"Day in, day out? When he's only doing this because Sawyer twisted his arm when he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and not out of genuine conviction? Look, maybe I was just running my mouth off a minute ago, because the truth of the matter is that the three of us? We're going to have it dead easy in comparison. Two former police officers and one cop's daughter living with an ex-cop? _We'll_ get the red carpet treatment. But Bruce..."

"Yeah," Dick said seriously, "but you're forgetting that he's been through this before—back when he first started training. He told me about it. The masters he went to study with told him he was too old to learn; that as an American, he was too soft. They didn't know who he was; he was using fake names, but they thought they had him pegged. He proved them wrong then. He can do it now." Dick leaned forward. "Especially if he's got us for support. Does he?"

Jim put his glasses back on. Then he got up and walked slowly to the coffee maker. He poured himself a mug from the carafe. "Got anything I can add to this? Sugar? Cream? Whiskey?"

Barbara's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but all she said was, "In the left-side drawer. In the right-side drawer. Downstairs, in the liquor cabinet between the Bailey's and the Frangelico. Does that mean you're in?"

Jim was silent.

"Daddy?"

The former commissioner chuckled. "Well, I guess if Bruce is prepared to go under the microscope, I can do my part. But he'd damned well better go through with this."

* * *

Dr. Alex Morgenstern was quiet for what felt like a long time. Finally, he said, "Do you think you're up for this?"

For once, Bruce didn't need to debate his reply. It occurred to him that if Alex were to step in, it might be a way out of the agreement he'd made with Sawyer that could still leave that door open in the future. After all, if he tried to follow this course of action against the recommendations of his court-ordered psychiatrist, Sawyer could hardly accuse him of reneging. And five months from now, after the hearing...

...Five months from now, she would still know that he was Batman, and she would still have the same concerns she'd voiced earlier about looking the other way while a 'loose cannon' was operating in Gotham.

Bruce closed his eyes. This wasn't going to blow over. Given the current situation, if he wanted any semblance of his old life back, he was going to have to play Sawyer's game. The worst of it was that he understood her perspective, and she wasn't wrong.

"I don't know," he said heavily. "The other night, my former partner's life was at stake. Commissioner Sawyer offered me a way to save him and I took it. If she hadn't, I still would have gone after him and dealt with the consequences later."

"And now you're still dealing with the consequences. They're just nothing that you likely could have predicted seven months ago, when the terms of your probation were spelled out for you."

Bruce nodded.

"Do you think that Commissioner Sawyer was wrong to put you in this position?"

Bruce considered the question, even as he studied the earth-toned geometric pattern of the office carpet. He focused on a tan diamond bordered in rust. "I think she was trying to give me an option to do what I needed to do, without facing incarceration later. That's part of it—maybe as much as half of it. However, I also can't deny that she's been trying to enlist me to teach my techniques to her people. She's approached me a few times in the past. And looking ahead, assuming that I go back to doing what I've always done best—only this time, with full legal sanction—Sawyer needs something to justify her trust in my competence after a long absence." It was an effort, but he kept his tone even. "Sometimes, plans go awry. If something were to go wrong as a result of my actions, she'd be forced to answer questions about why the GCPD tolerated my activities. As I understand it—and correct me if I'm wrong—at the hearing I'll be facing next July, the issue before the judge will be whether I'm mentally fit to be part of society without supervision."

"That's right," Alex prompted.

Bruce looked up for a moment, before returning his gaze to the diamond. "For me to return to my night-time activities, a higher standard will be necessary. Under those circumstances, the GCPD psych evaluation is likely to carry more weight with skeptics. And..."

"And?"

Bruce sighed. "It might help to allay my own concerns as well. The rules have changed since the last time I wore the suit. My circumstances... my life... has changed. I need to know that I can adjust."

"And if you can't?"

Bruce sighed again. "Then I need to know that, too. So I can let go of the fantasy."

Alex scribbled something into his notebook. Bruce waited, his eyes closed as he employed a basic relaxation technique. He was startled when Alex called his name, realizing that the psychiatrist had done so at least once before. "Sorry. I was just..."

"I know." Alex steepled his fingers, tips facing out. "All right. It sounds to me like your insights are spot-on—not that you need me to confirm it. Sawyer found a point where her wants and your needs intersected, and she's pressing that to her full advantage. That being said," his expression lightened, "If you'll recall last year, my recommendation to the judge was for no more than six months of mandatory supervision. He overrode that, as was his right. However, while we've both had to accept that decision, I'd like you to know that, in my personal view, my initial recommendation has borne out. You have issues that you need to work on, and I can help you with that—as can other qualified professionals. At this point, though, I don't believe that your mental health would _necessarily_ preclude your following through with the agreement you struck with Commissioner Sawyer. I think that there are probably some specific issues that might be helpful to discuss regarding your past activities—issues that could come up again, now that you're looking to do some fieldwork."

Bruce's head lifted slightly.

Alex's smile turned serious. "Under the circumstances, I think it might be helpful to step up our sessions," he said, "at least in the short-term. New beginnings are often stressful, and you may find that our current meetings won't be enough." Something must have shown in Bruce's expression, because Alex continued in a softer tone. "It's up to you," he said. "This isn't mandatory, and although it might feel like a setback, it isn't. What you're proposing to do _might_ be the best thing that could happen right now. It might also be a bit premature, but you won't know unless you try."

Bruce nodded slowly.

"Fine," Alex said simply. "We'll try two sessions per week for the next month." He consulted his data planner. "I have a slot free every Thursday at three o'clock . Let's tentatively schedule a second hour there. If there are any conflicts, let me know and we'll work around them. And if you find that you're managing all right, we can review after the month is up."

"Fine," Bruce replied as surprise and relief intermingled with an unexpected sense of dread. "That will be... acceptable."

Alex started making out an appointment card. "I'd also like you to keep a journal for the next week," he said. "You don't need to show it to me or discuss it in our sessions, although you're certainly welcome to do either. Or both. What I'd like you to do—not for me; for yourself—is jot down every time that you feel that you are not in control of a situation. I want you to specify what the situation is, the emotional reaction it triggers in you, and how the situation resolves. It can be something as mundane as 'stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Aparo. Angry. Sat and stewed for forty-five minutes before it finally started moving again. Continued to my destination.' He smiled. "Your control issues are going to come up. I think they would, even had you made a free decision to follow this path. The fact that there's an element of coercion in play isn't going to make it easier. I think we need to plan ahead for any difficulties that might arise on that front."

Bruce nodded. He could well appreciate a desire to anticipate undesirable occurrences, even if Alex probably was worrying needlessly. "Understood," he acknowledged with a faint smile.

* * *

Sharon Ryerson padded down the darkened hallway, ignoring the faint illumination coming from under the door of Joel's room. Her son was doubtless playing another video game. She should probably tell him to get to sleep, but he never listened anyway.

She walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, knowing that it was time to pay the bills, but unwilling to reach for the ever-mounting stack. She had to make the mortgage payment by Friday, she thought as she chewed on her lower lip. That, electricity, phone... then groceries. After that, maybe there'd be something left over for the credit cards. Funny how little money came in from working two jobs plus some sporadic weekend babysitting. It had been so different when Paul had been alive...

Sharon scowled, remembering how Joel had suggested filing a civil suit against Wayne. She'd wondered where a fourteen-year-old boy would have heard of such a thing, but then Joel always had been bright. It hadn't changed her answer to him. She wanted no blood money from Wayne or from his company. Her husband was dead thanks to Wayne's grandstanding, and she wasn't about to allow him to mitigate his guilt in any way, shape or form, no matter how badly she needed the money. She'd been happy enough when she'd known that he was safely under lock and key in Arkham, but barely two years later, he was out again while her husband and twenty-seven other good people were still dead and buried.

She hid her face in her hands. She didn't want to confront Wayne. She didn't want to see him again. Not that she wanted him to go to that gala and act like he hadn't a care in the world, either! She groaned. It was so unfair. She'd always wanted to go to one of those high society charity affairs, just once. Now she had her chance, but she'd have to see Wayne there as well. If only there was some way that she could have her one night to play "Cinderella at the ball" without having to encounter Captain Hook! She winced. She really needed to get more sleep, if that was the best imagery she could concoct, but as the date of the charity gala drew closer, her nerves were getting worse, making sleep an increasingly-sporadic event. Surely, there was some way to keep Wayne from coming within a few thousand feet of her. Her eyes widened as an idea began to take form.

_Maybe there was..._

* * *

"I'd say that this is going to hurt me more than it does you," Jim rumbled, "but I think it's going to be a tossup. The interview lasts about two and a half hours on average. It's going to feel like it's a lot longer."

"I'm ready."

Jim shook his head. "That's what they all think," he said with a weary smile. "Okay. First, before we get started, there are a few things I want you to understand. Don't worry." He picked up a clipboard with a self-deprecating smile. "I wrote it all down in advance to make sure I don't leave anything out."

Bruce nodded impatiently.

Jim's eyes took on an amused glint, even as his smile faded. "First," he began, "a lot of what I'm going to ask will sound like a cross-examination. That's basically what it is. My advice to you is to assume that the GCPD investigation team has already done their homework—because, if they're worth their salt, they have. In other words, when they ask you if you've ever engaged in illegal activity, yes, they know the answer to that one, and no, they won't be satisfied if you just 'fess up to tax evasion!"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "It sounds as though this is going to be an exercise in futility, then," he said.

Jim's lips twitched. "Maybe... but that's as good as saying that Sawyer's got nothing better to do than waste your time and twist your arm."

"Unless she wants to demonstrate to me unequivocally why she _can't_ grant me deputy status."

Jim shook his head. "From everything I've seen of her, I have a hard time believing that she'd pull something quite like that. Of course, you don't have to take _my_ word for it. Seems to me that one of your friends had a nodding acquaintance with her back in her Metropolis days. You might want to sound him out."

Bruce grunted noncommittally. "You were trying to tell me that confessing to criminal behavior was a good thing?" he prompted.

" _Honesty_ is a good thing. Dick told me you know how to fool a lie detector test. I'd advise you not to try. They're trying to figure out if you're officer material." His lips twitched. "The ideal kind—not the corrupt type we've both tried to get off the force with varying degrees of success. Having a criminal past—and let's not mince words about it: on paper, that's you—is bad. Lying about it is worse. Demonstrating that you can lie so effectively that if the evidence to the contrary wasn't in front of them, they'd have no way of knowing the truth? How eager would _you_ be to trust your life to someone like that, hmm?"

Bruce nodded reluctantly. He gestured to Jim to continue.

"Okay. I mentioned that this was going to be like a cross-examination. There are a couple of differences. You want the good news or the bad news?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Both."

Jim chuckled at that. "Fine; let's cover the downside first. You don't get to object to any questions. Nothing is off-limits. Nothing is sacred. Well, I don't think they're going to ask the color of your underwear, but I'd make a mental note of it anyway. That's the bad news. The good news is that you aren't restricted to answering 'yes' or 'no'. You get to explain yourself. The equivalent of 'Yes, I was speeding, but I was taking a critically ill person to the hospital'." His eyes narrowed. "Or in your case, I suppose, 'Yes I have looked at child pornography. I came across a number of photographs when I was going through the filing cabinet of John Q. Sleazebucket, looking for something to link him to the human trafficking ring."

Bruce's lips twitched as he nodded once more.

"They're going to ask about that kind of thing. Absolutely, one hundred per cent. They'll ask about drugs, too." He smiled. "One candidate a few years back admitted to frequent marijuana use. He got accepted—like I'm saying, honesty counts for a lot. They never let him guard the evidence room, mind you, but that's neither here nor there." The smile faded again. "Look, I really hate to bring this up now. I mean, it was so long ago, and I know you're not using anything of the kind now..."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jim sighed. "Bruce... I... There was a short time back in the early days when you suddenly seemed a bit..." he hesitated, "different. Less focused. More aggressive. Thuggish, even. I wasn't the only person who noticed, either."

All the color drained from Bruce's face. "Jim—"

"Let me finish. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some strong suspicions, or that I wasn't mentally going through a checklist of symptoms. Before I made up my mind what to do about my concerns, though, you saved my life," he smiled. "Thanks for that, by the way. It wasn't the first time or the last, but I don't think I ever mentioned it until now."

Bruce's eyes flicked up for an instant before lowering once more.

Jim pursed his lips and took a breath. "After that," he continued, "you disappeared for a few months. When you came back, you were in better shape. I figured you'd probably gotten whatever help you needed, and so I left matters alone."

Bruce hunched forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. "I remember," he whispered. "You..." a soft breath, partway between a sigh and a groan escaped him. "You would have been correct, had you gone with your instincts." A flush rose to his cheeks as he continued haltingly. "It was not... a good time for me. Not that it's any sort of excuse." He closed his eyes. "The experiment was never repeated."

Jim nodded. "And, it was over and done with well over fifteen years ago. When the subject comes up for you—and I did say 'when,' not 'if'—I would come clean. Because if they ask me outright whether I ever had reason to believe you to be driving drunk or drugged, I'm going to answer honestly. I'm going to give them every detail I can think of that might mitigate the circumstances. I'm going to tell them that it was a brief interlude that lasted no more than six months, and that it was over years ago. But once they start asking me questions, I'm not going to start second-guessing whether you followed my advice on whether to come clean; I'm going to assume you were smart enough to take it." He laid a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Even if you tell me right now that you're planning to falsify certain details, I'm still going to hope that you wise up at the last minute."

Bruce slumped further in his chair.

"You told me Sawyer said straight out that she doesn't want a loose cannon operating in this city. Rightly or wrongly, the investigator is going to judge your moral fiber—at least partly—by that of your friends. And having friends who are comfortable lying for you isn't going to look good." He waited for the words to sink in. "I'm sorry."

Bruce nodded slowly. A moment later, he sat up straighter and opened his eyes. "If that's the case," he said, still whispering, "then you should hear the whole story from me, first. I... it'll probably make it easier for me to discuss later."

"I'm listening," Jim said.

Bruce drew a deep breath. "Do you remember the Sissy Porter kidnapping?"

* * *

It was a relatively quiet patrol that night, which suited Dick fine. He and Selina were in fair form, easily apprehending a number of small-time crooks and vandals. There was a break-and-enter in the East End. Dick left Selina to take care of that while he helped the Coast Guard nab a few salmon smugglers. She tended to take burglary on her home turf rather personally.

It was maybe an hour later that they met on a rooftop overlooking Robinson Park.

"He's having a rough time," Selina said without preamble.

Dick nodded, unsurprised. "Gordon said that if we wanted him to help prepare Bruce for the evaluation, he wasn't going to sugarcoat things. The whole procedure is a nightmare."

"Guess I can't fault the GCPD for not wanting to certify trigger-happy cops," Selina agreed. "Still... it was hard enough for him to open to _us_ about things that were a lot less personal."

"Don't I know it. Just letting his guard down around Morgenstern was a major step," Dick sighed. "Is he having second thoughts?"

"He's had them," Selina replied. "I think we're on to fifth or sixth. He's still ready to do it, but," she sighed, "I almost think he'd rather go a few rounds with the KGBeast."

Dick's lips twitched. "Well, sure. That would be over a lot faster, one way or the other." His smile took on a slightly more serious tone. "Look, in a perfect world, he aces the tests, gets deputized, everyone cheers and he goes on to a perfect record on the force, loved and admired by all. This isn't a perfect world. If he doesn't pass the psych evaluation, or the examiner doesn't like something in the background check—"

"What's not to like?" Selina asked, absolutely deadpan.

Dick didn't laugh. "Look, just help me help him see that there are a few other options."

"Don't suggest operating outside of Gotham," Selina said, all trace of light-heartedness gone. "He loves this city too much. You weren't here right after the Cataclysm—"

"Actually—"

"No, you were in Bludhaven. You came in as soon as you could, but he and I were right... here in the thick of things, when the quake actually happened. He... it tore him apart, almost as much as it tore Gotham apart."

"I know." Dick closed his eyes. "Look, he can take on another costume. Sawyer's as good as told me that she's not deliberately out to catch him. Another name, another alias and..."

"Maybe," Selina said dubiously. "But if he walks away now, it's like he's throwing her offer back in her face. How well is she going to take _that_?"

Dick shook his head, frowning. "I've had a working relationship with her for over two years, and I don't know the answer to that one. I mean, for all the rules and red tape she's laying down, she's still going out on a limb for him and probably risking her career. And she really just knows Bruce by reputation. I'm not sure how much _Gordon_ would have extended himself if he were in Sawyer's place at this point." He shifted to a more comfortable position. "Of course, if the JLA can help him re-establish his UN sanction—"

"He's pulled stuff with them, too," Selina pointed out. "They're probably going to want some guarantees of their own. If I were Bruce, I'd resent it more if my _friends_ were the ones insisting I prove myself all over again. I'm just saying."

Dick nodded. "I take your point. Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that. Bruce has a way of achieving the impossible. Maybe that'll still hold true."

Selina grinned. "He does, doesn't he? Hope springs eternal."

Dick leaned forward, suddenly all-business. "Yeah, you know who else has just sprung? From Blackgate?"

"Huh?" Selina whipped out a pair of binoculars. "Oh, for the love of... That's Tiger Ross. He tried to frame me for swiping the Mackenzie Bast statuary three years ago."

"Well he's breaking into the Kotka Gallery."

"I'll kill him." She groaned. "No, I can't. I promised Bruce. Damn it!"

Dick grinned. "Selina... Catwoman... you've got to start projecting. You don't kill him. You make him _wish_ you were gonna. Wanna see?"

"Right. Like I'll let you take the lead on a cat-themed B-and-E. Out of my way, Junior-Bat." She hooked her grapnel around the nearest building and leaped off, Dick right behind her.

And it had been such a quiet night, too...

* * *

Bruce pointed the gun at the target, irritated to see that his hand was shaking. Maybe he _was_ rushing things a bit. More than a bit; he'd finally managed to load the Beretta for the first time less than twenty-four hours earlier. Actually using it might be expecting too much too soon. He unloaded the gun and put the rounds back into the box.

He frowned. Then, impulsively, he raised the empty gun and aimed it once more at the target. This time his hand held steady. His heart, on the other hand, thudded madly. He did not want to do this. The refrain in his head was getting old by now. He'd tried to build a life where he had sufficient control not to have to do things he didn't want to. _That_ had been working just fine for the last little while, he thought sarcastically. Sure, there were some things that were unavoidable: taxes, sleep, society affairs with people who were every bit as shallow and vapid as he affected to be. But he had never dreamed that he would be in a position where he would be forced to use a gun.

_Are we back to this again? Stop whining. You can hate this all you like, but master it just the same._

Bruce winced. Then, leaving the unloaded gun on the table, he walked over to the security array and checked one of the monitors. A smile came to his lips. He quickly returned the gun to the trophy room and went upstairs.

When he opened the door to Helena's bedroom, she opened her eyes sleepily. "Daddy?"

Bruce stroked the line of her jaw gently with his fingertips. "Go back to sleep, Helena," he whispered, realizing with a pang that she probably wouldn't have awakened had he not opened the door. "I'm sorry."

Helena smiled. "Story?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "It's late..." he said, doubt plain in his voice.

"Story."

He looked down at her. "Please?"

Helena giggled. "Peas. Story, peas."

Bruce nearly laughed. "Peas, huh? You want me to tell you a story about peas?"

"Ya."

He surrendered gracefully to the inevitable. After all, it was his fault that she was awake. "Once upon a time, there were five peas... in a pod who," he smiled, "who always said 'please' and 'thank you.' Now one day, the peas were hanging from their plant in the garden, which your Uncle Jim and I should really think about planting soon, when all of a sudden..."

Twenty minutes later, Bruce left his sleeping daughter and made his way back down to the cave. He looked toward the trophy room, where the gun awaited him. Then he looked back at the security arrays. His daughter deserved to have a father who wasn't one step ahead of the law and constantly looking over his shoulder. She deserved to have a father she wouldn't have to lie about, when people asked what he did for a living. She deserved a far better father than he could ever be, but he was too much of a coward to tell Selina as much. That wasn't the only reason, of course, but just because he couldn't state the other one out loud didn't mean he didn't feel it.

_Selina asked me if this whole experiment was worth it. For Helena's sake, it is. And if that's the case..._ If that was the case, then he needed to do his part. Maybe his earlier thought had been correct and he _was_ taking on too much too soon. Maybe this unhappy experiment _was_ doomed to failure. But before he would allow himself to accept the possibility as fact, he needed to know that he had sincerely tried to do this thing.

Bruce bit his lip. Then he went to retrieve the gun. If his aim was steady when he didn't have live ammunition in the gun, then maybe he'd find it easier to practice with rubber bullets instead of live rounds.

_And maybe he could become enough of an expert with a gun that—at least for him—'shooting to wound' would be more than a fantasy._ His eyebrows lifted. Batarangs were potentially lethal too, and he had practiced long and hard to make sure that they only flew where they were supposed to. If he could somehow manage that same feat with a firearm... He was getting ahead of himself. First things first. He scanned the shelves of the trophy room, looking for the rubber bullets.

* * *

The late afternoon rush at the coffee shop seemed to drag on forever. Sharon kept looking at the clock, unable to believe how little time was actually passing. She was glad that Ron would be driving her to her second job—he had been for the last two weeks, ever since he had first sounded her out on the idea of keeping Wayne from regaining any standing with PMWE.

Now, as the minute hand of the clock crawled ever-so-slowly toward the 12 and the hour hand remained just a hairsbreadth away from the six, Sharon was nearly giddy with anticipation. She couldn't wait to tell him what she'd done on her way to work this morning. She'd had to agree to work half of Margie's Sunday shift this week, but just this once, it had been worth it. There had been a wait at the police station, and she'd barely made it into the coffee shop by noon, but it didn't matter. She was going to have her glamorous evening, and Wayne wouldn't be able to do a thing about it!

"Sharon?"

She looked up. Ron was smiling in the doorway. "Sorry I'm a minute late. Traffic's bad tonight. I'm just waiting around the corner on Snyder, but if I see a police car, I'm going to have to circle."

"No problem," Sharon smiled back. "Just let me get my till put away and grab my coat and I'll be right there."

The whole short walk to the car, she felt like she was walking on a cloud. Ron sensed her mood when she got into his car.

"You had a good day, I take it?"

"I had a _glorious_ day," she beamed. "I did something brilliant. I can't believe I didn't think of it before!"

"Oh really?" Ron smiled, catching some of her enthusiasm. "What?"

Sharon giggled maliciously. "Something that's going to keep Wayne out of our hair for a while..."


	3. 2. Playing with Matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The WE board of directors realizes that they've engaged a loose cannon. It's time for a bit of damage control... maybe. Meanwhile, the GCPD needs to interview Bruce's friends, colleagues, and family. This could get interesting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta. Thanks to PJ and her colleagues at the San Jose PD for assistance with Police Academy candidate vetting procedures. Information on Gotham's Battergate neighborhood comes from The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City, designed and developed by Matt Brady and Dwight Williams. Edited by Fred Jandt and Nikola Vrtis (Honesdale: West End Games, 2000).
> 
> A/N: "Walking Through Fire" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Come On Come On album (Columbia, 1992).
> 
> A/N: For the purpose of this AU, Barry is back and Wally hasn't gone anywhere. Wally's identity is still publicly known. Barry's is secret. At present, both men are sharing the Flash role, although Barry tends to handle more JLA-type business and Wally works closer to home. The general public is not aware that there are two Flashes. The current Aquaman in this AU is Arthur Joseph Curry (He had a brief cameo in The Way Back, which was written prior to Orin's return in DC canon).

_When you set a match to your heart, fueling it with bitterness and doubt_   
_That's the place that once it starts, no amount of tears can put out  
I know you're scared, but no one's spared when you play with matches_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Walking Through Fire"_

**Chapter 2—Playing With Matches**

"You are not helping," Bruce muttered darkly, as Selina giggled.

Helena whimpered and struggled to get out of the high chair. The tray before her gave ample testimony to what she thought of mashed parsnips and carrots: in her eyes, they might qualify as an art supply, but not a foodstuff.

"I'm sorry," Selina gasped. "It's just that somehow, I never thought that the scourge of Gotham's underworld would find himself powerless to defeat a nemesis who hasn't even celebrated her second birthday yet!"

Bruce turned to face Selina. "What exactly would you like me to do?" he asked wearily. "It's not like I can dangle her over the side of a building until she promises to eat her vegetables."

"No, she seems to like heights," Selina nodded sagely. "But seriously, I wish I had a camera rolling."

"Frankly, I'm glad you don't," Bruce rejoined, hoping that she'd forgotten about the...

"Oh, that's right! You've got the entire house under surveillance. I'll have to check out the footage later. You can burn a copy to disc, right?"

 _Damn_. He only hoped that she didn't plan to show it to anyone else, but knowing her, if he brought up the subject, he was only guaranteeing that she would.

The gate intercom buzzed.

Bruce frowned. "Are you expecting anybody?"

"No. You?"

He shook his head. "Get Helena into the Cave," he said. "If I don't come down in ten minutes, take a car and get out of here."

Selina looked at him for a long moment. "Unless assassination-by-intercom is a thing, now, I don't think I need to hide in the basement _quite_ yet." All the same, she held out her arms for her daughter.

Bruce lifted Helena out of the high chair and handed her over. There was an orange stain gracing the shoulder of his navy blue pullover.

The bell rang again. He went to the vestibule and checked the camera at the front gate. Selina followed. There was a slight figure standing there in a non-descript quilted jacket and jeans. Bruce couldn't be certain whether it was a man or a woman, but whoever it was they were glancing nervously over their shoulder and trembling. "Yes?" he asked.

"Please! You gotta help me." The voice was young, female, and decidedly frightened.

"Who are you?" he asked calmly, hoping to steady the caller at the gate.

"M-My name's Muriel Wake. The name on the sign... This _is_ the Bruce Wayne who's Batman, right? I mean... I mean there wouldn't be two of you, oh shi—I'm sorry, I'm babbling, but I'm in real trouble and I can't go to the cops. Please... they-they're tailing us. Me and my sister. I don't think I have more than a ten minute lead. I..." there was a coughing, followed by loud panting as Muriel tried to catch her breath.

Bruce hesitated. He turned away from the intercom and looked at Selina. "She _sounds_ like she could be legit," he said in a low tone. "But..."

"Bruce!" Selina said sharply, "sometimes you're just too paranoid for your own good. She's alone, she's in trouble, she's scared, and frankly, even if she does turn out to be Poison Ivy in disguise, I think you can handle her."

"And if you're wrong, I won't be the only one in danger."

"And if _you're_ wrong, and something happens because you wouldn't let her in... What are you doing?" she demanded, as Bruce tapped some buttons on a console by the intercom.

"Sending voice and visual to the analyzer in the Cave. Take Helena down there and check the results. Meanwhile, I'll let her onto the grounds, but not into the manor, until you give me the all-clear."

Selina gave him a hard look. "Fine," she snapped. She shifted her hold on Helena. "Come on downstairs, Honey. Daddy's being an overprotective ass again."

Bruce ignored her and spoke again into the intercom. "I'm opening the gate for you now," he said. "You can come up the drive to the house, but wait in your car. I'll come out."

The response was a near-incoherent babble of thanks.

"Stay in the car—both of you. I'll be out momentarily."

He switched off the intercom, walked into the hallway, and waited a few minutes before turning on a different intercom. "Selina?

"Hang on," she muttered. I can't believe I'm doing this. "Okay, her face and voice aren't in your database, and close-ups show no evidence of make-up, latex, or any other methods of disguise. She looks like she's in her mid-twenties. Another woman's in the passenger seat—looks about the same age, and facial recognition software's drawing a similar blank. Now, are you going to help them, or do you want them to stew a little longer while you put on a bullet-proof vest?"

"Don't think I haven't considered it." He ignored her snarl. "What's Helena doing?"

"Right now? She's making a mess in the play area. I mean, I'm sure you'd say she's experimenting with the stackability of Beanie Babies, but I'm just calling a spade a spade."

Bruce nodded. "Watch the cameras." He closed the connection and walked to the front door. There was a beat-up Impala parked on the front drive. As Bruce approached the car, the front doors opened and both women came out.

"I'm Muriel," the driver introduced herself. "And you," she gushed, "are a lifesaver. While we were waiting for you, we saw the car that's been following us drive right on by without stopping! Thank you so much!" She held out her right hand for him to shake.

Bruce smiled. Selina had been right. He _had_ been acting a bit over-cautious. "That's quite all right," he said magnanimously, reaching for her hand.

That was when she brought her left hand forward and pressed a folded sheet of paper into it.

"What's this?" Bruce asked sharply as the second woman held up a camera and snapped a photo.

Muriel smiled. "Congratulations, Mr. Wayne. You've just been served."

Ten minutes later, Selina walked into the den. Bruce was slumped on the sofa with a stunned expression, still holding the paper.

"I put Helena in the nursery," she said softly. "What... what happened? Who was that?"

Bruce didn't answer. Selina took hold of the paper and tugged. For a moment, Bruce held on. Then, with a sigh, he relinquished it. "Process servers," he said in disbelief.

"Excuse me?" Selina gaped at him. She read the page hastily. "Bruce... this... this is..."

* * *

Ron Chester was out of his element. Give him a new product, regardless of how esoteric or how ridiculous it appeared, he could find some way to spin it. At the tender age of 22, when he was still working in the garment trade, he had (in his then-boss's exact words) single-handedly saved their women's coat line when a production error had left them saddled with 15,000 short-sleeved full-length minks. While his higher-ups had been staring open-mouthed at the monstrosities, Chester had raced over to the accessories section and liberated a pair of fur-trimmed evening gloves with a matching roller hat. He had then dressed a mannequin in coat, gloves, and hat, and presented the finished look to his bosses.

The head of marketing had been non-committal, but they'd been desperate enough to try his idea. The coats had sold. In fact, the coats had sold so well that they'd had to produce another 5,000, just to meet demand. His bosses had regarded him as a marketing genius, and by the time he was 30, he'd been targeted by several headhunting firms. He'd accepted WE's offer and served as their VP of Marketing for over a decade now. There were few negatives he couldn't downplay or turn into positives... in a marketing context.

Unfortunately, his current predicament had all the earmarks of a disaster, and he didn't think he'd be able to solve it with a pair of evening gloves!

He gaped at the woman seated next to him in the car. "Y-you what?" he gasped, when he finally found his voice.

Sharon Ryerson grinned. "I went downtown and filed a restraining order against Bruce Wayne," she repeated cheerfully. "If he can't get within five hundred feet of me, he can't come to the gala if I'm there, so he stays away, the dinner goes ahead, and everything's good. Right?"

Ron's mind worked furiously as strangled sounds came out of his throat. He wanted to explain to her that restraining orders didn't work the way she seemed to think they did, that she had just opened a massive can of worms, that... he didn't even know what, but something other than what he _was_ doing, which was opening and closing his mouth like a codfish!

"Are you choking?" Sharon asked, suddenly concerned.

He took a deep breath. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

Sharon shook her head. "Nope. I was afraid they'd try talking me out of it. Bureaucracies take forever," she said, rolling her eyes. "Go here, go there, fill out this form, no that one, sign here, initial there..." She laughed. "If I'd known it was going to take that long, I probably would have lost my nerve and given up, but..."

"But you didn't," Ron said with forced cheer.

"Nope. The paperwork is in the system, and a temporary order should go out today or tomorrow. So? Brilliant or what?"

Ron's smile might have been painted on. "Let me get you to Sheldon Park," he murmured. "I'll be sure to let my associates know what you've done."

_And hopefully, they'll know if there's any way to clear the area before this hits the fan!_

"But what do you think?" Sharon asked eagerly.

Ron sighed. "I think that this could be something major," he said, trying hard to smile.

Only the fervent hope that perhaps one of the other Board members would see a way to turn this series of events around kept him from throttling her. He had to call Les Paxton as soon as possible. Damage control... there had to be some way out of this, he told himself. Somehow, there had to be a way to spin this.

* * *

"Eight days?" Detective Maury Chiarello blinked. "You're asking me," he drawled, "to complete a background check in eight days. For someone like Wayne." He shook his head. "You know who I should be inviting to come down and talk to about him? Superman. Aquaman. Flash. And all the other capes."

Maggie regarded him with a steady gaze. "Yes, exactly. And?"

"No, Commissioner. Please. Don't give me that 'I-don't-understand-the-problem' look when you know damned well this isn't going to go off without a hitch. I don't know if you realize it, but I can't exactly find the JLA's phone number at four-one-one-dot-com."

"They have a public number."

Chiarello groaned. "So does the White House. Ten to one, if I needed to phone the President, he'd get back to me twice as fast. Actually, scratch that," he went on. "Half of eternity is still eternity, and that's how long I'll probably be waiting for anyone to... what's this?" He blinked as Maggie slapped a lined sheet of yellow paper on his desk blotter.

"Don't lose it," she replied. "I had to give a lot of assurances to secure this information—including a promise that it would not be kept in any database, and that we would destroy it once the investigation was complete. Don't make a liar out of me, Chiarello." She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

"What is it?"

"According to one of my predecessors," Maggie said, "it's the contact number for the JLA's...dispatcher. Actually, this individual handles some other associations as well—so if you need to speak with anyone in the JSA or the Titans, for example, this number is your first step. If the party at the other end can't help you directly, they'll try to hook you up with someone who can."

Chiarello took the paper, folded it hastily and put it in his breast pocket. "Most of these people," he said with considerably less heat than he had a minute ago, "they... even if I can get in contact with them, you know how they are. Always running off to deal with some disaster or other... it's hard to pin them down for any length of time. I mean, I guess if it's a choice between saving the universe and coming down to the precinct, I can see where their priorities are going to be, but..." He shook his head. "You're really not giving me much of a timeframe."

Maggie smiled. "Call the number, Maury. I think you might be pleasantly surprised." The smile became a smirk. "I've been told that some of these people are actually pretty friendly compared to a few of our locals..."

* * *

"So when they call..." Barbara was saying.

Her computer monitor was subdivided into 64 squares. A different face looked out at her from each one.

"We'll be there," Superman confirmed.

"Oracle?"

It took her a moment to realize who was speaking. "Hi, Barry. It's been too long."

Flash smiled. "It seems like just yesterday you were telling me all about how you were planning to run for Congress and..."

"Yeah, time flies."

Barry shook his head. "You have _no_ idea. Anyway, to put it bluntly, who's going to be more of a help? Barry Allen police scientist-turned-detective, or the Flash?"

Barbara considered. "Well... I think they only need _one_ Scarlet Speedster." She thought about it a moment longer. "Wear the suit. It'll avoid all the questions about how a cop in another state can know him so well. Besides, they're going to be calling for 'The Flash'. So unless you're planning on outing yourself..."

"Point taken."

"Some of the things he's done," Clark spoke now. "I know that the investigators are going to be expecting full disclosure. Which, as I'm sure you can appreciate, would normally fall under betraying a trust. From what you're saying, in this case...?" He left the question hanging.

"We've been telling him... my father's been telling him, anyway... that full disclosure _is_ the way to go." She hesitated. "What Bruce is going to do once they've got him under the microscope may not be as cut-and-dried as all that." She brought a hand to her forehead and pushed back her bangs, making a mental note that it was time for another haircut. "Guys... if you really want to know... maybe you could _ask_ him." _And leave me out of it_ , she added silently.

"How many of us are they going to want to contact?" Roy asked.

"I don't know, but be ready if you're one of them." A light began to flash on her console. "Hang on. Incoming call. This could be it."

She blanked out the array, set the voice scrambler, and accepted the call. "Yes?" There was a pause. Then a slightly-hesitant voice posed a short question. Oracle smiled. "Yes, this is. I've been expecting your call, Detective Chiarello." She fought to keep her voice neutral. It had been less than 24 hours since she had found out that the detective who had interviewed her for Dick's background check four years ago was now doing the same kind of work in Gotham. She straightened her shoulders and continued briskly. "Do you have a number at which you can be reached? Very well. If you give me the names, I will ask those individuals to contact you. If they fail to do so within two hours, please do call this number again. May I have your list please?"

She listened, frowning. "My apologies, Detective. I regret to inform you that the individual currently using that name began his tenure as Aquaman less than two years ago. To the best of my knowledge, he and your candidate have never met. That is correct. The individual to whom you likely wish to speak is deceased." Although she knew that he couldn't see her, she lowered her head and closed her eyes as Chiarello stammered condolences. "Thank you." She took a deep breath. "May I have the next name?"

A few moments later, she ended the call and restored the array. "Okay. So far, he wants to talk to fifteen of you—or rather fourteen," she corrected, "although he thinks otherwise. I'll explain in a second. He may want to talk to more before the investigation's complete. I'm transmitting his phone number to the people he's chosen now. Let me know if you don't receive it momentarily. In alphabetical order: Arsenal, Batgirl, Black Canary, Black Lightning, Flash, Green Lantern, Green Arrow. Harrier? He's asking specifically for both you and 'Robin'. Up to you if you want to publicize your... evolution or wear your old suit to the second interview. And try to make sure that whether you're 'Robin' or 'Harrier,' you and Tim Drake aren't scheduled back-to-back, seeing as once Chiarello's done talking to capes, he's going to start on civilians."

Tim nodded.

Barbara took another breath. "Hawkman," she continued, "Huntress, Looker, Plastic Man, Superman, Wonder Woman. The rest of you," her gaze slowly panned the array, "think of yourselves as being on standby. The investigator is working against a deadline, but within the confines of that deadline, he's going to follow up with everyone he can. As for the names I've just read off," she smiled, "I told him you'd be calling within the next hour or so, so snap to it."

Roy brought two fingers to his temple in a brisk salute. "Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am!"

Barbara grinned. "Thanks, guys," she said, dropping the stiff pose, "Oracle out."

* * *

"Repeat that once more, Chester," Les Paxton said icily. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

Ron Chester swallowed. "She had Wayne slapped with a TRO."

Paxton nodded, his expression grim. "Very well. We know that if Wayne is smart—and past appearances notwithstanding, it's fairly plain that he is—he'll consult with a lawyer and attempt to contest. At that point, the Temporary Restraining Order will be overturned and Ms. Ryerson may find herself the victim of a defamation lawsuit." He sniffed. " _I'd_ certainly file one."

"She doesn't deserve that," Chester said uneasily. "She's not thinking clearly. She blames Wayne for her husband's death, and she made a stupid move. But she's also trying to make ends meet and raise a teenage son she barely sees because she's out working two jobs to support him."

Paxton held up one hand. Then, deliberately, he rubbed the tip of his thumb against the tip of his index finger. When Chester looked perplexed, he began to hum a tune that sounded vaguely classical.

"Les? Are you all right?"

Paxton smiled. "I'm just playing the world's smallest violin for her." His voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Listen! Can't you hear it? Can you not see the deep sympathy etched into the lines of my face, oozing out through every pore? Can't you?"

"Um..."

"NO!" Paxton bellowed. "BECAUSE... IT'S... NOT... _THERE_! Now listen to me, you weepy, whiny sonovabitch! That woman's ill-advised action stands an excellent chance of rebounding on us and landing _us_ in the middle of the media frenzy we're trying to unleash on Wayne. Only we won't get a couple of weeks in the tabloids and a few pictures on the society page. Oh, no. No, if she spills the wrong words to the wrong people, this could reflect on us very, _very_ BADLY! Unless..."

Chester blinked. He didn't like Paxton's smile. Not at all. "Unless?" he stammered.

"She's filed for a restraining order on what grounds? Harassment?"

"That's right."

"So when Wayne goes to fight this, as he almost definitely will—if he doesn't, that's almost all the proof we need that he's incompetent right there—when Ryerson is unable to produce evidence that Wayne has had any dealings with her, the judge will overturn the TRO on the spot."

"Yes..."

"Well," Paxton said slowly, "what if there _was_ evidence?"

* * *

If scowls were audible, Bruce thought he might have heard Rae Green's over the other line. Instead, her intake of breath sounded suspiciously like a snarl.

"Have you had any kind of contact with her since her outburst at your hearing? Have any of your... colleagues?"

"No," Bruce said quickly. "And no. I verified with them before I called you. Her neighborhood isn't one of the places that I or my people have had cause to patrol since the Rebuild. Until I saw the address on the TRO, I didn't even know where she lived."

Rae gave a noncommittal grunt. "I've never even heard of 'Wrightson Way' before," she added. "Where is that?"

"Battergate."

"Ah." The area was one of Gotham's true successes of urban reclamation. It had been one of the city's worst slums until the Cataclysm, but since the end of the No Man's Land, Battergate had shown marked improvement in virtually all socio-economic indicators. Today it was a quiet blue-collar area with clean streets and parks, safe schools, and an active neighborhood association.

There was a moment's pause. Bruce could hear the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. "The TRO should specify a date and time for a hearing. Does it?"

Bruce gave it.

Rae exhaled. "Fine. You and I will both attend that hearing and get this overturned. It shouldn't be too hard, unless," her voice grew stern, "she is able to prove that you have directly or indirectly harassed her. Indirect would be harder to prove, but a judge might still accept the argument. Therefore, between now and the hearing date, it is essential that you abide by the terms of the TRO. Avoid Battergate. Tell your people to let the police handle any incidents that might take place there. Do not call her to try to 'settle things amicably'. Do not write her an apology letter or send some belated condolence card. Do not make a donation to Victim Support in her late husband's name. And try to make sure that there are others in your vicinity that can corroborate your presence at any given time."

Bruce bristled. "I'm hardly an amateur, Rae."

"No," Rae's voice was kind but firm. "However, you are a person facing a false accusation. You wouldn't be the first one to think that because they haven't done anything wrong, the whole thing is a simple misunderstanding and easily cleared up. You remember the outburst she made at your hearing? That was just the tip of the iceberg. She protested when you were remanded to Arkham instead of being forced to stand trial. She's created numerous online petitions calling for you to be permanently locked up."

"How many signers?" Bruce asked, stunned.

"Not many, but that's beside the point. The woman needs help—I'm not denying that. I am telling you that the offer of said help cannot come from you or any of your... people. If she's like this when you legitimately aren't trying to approach her, imagine what she'll be like if you do." She took a breath. "As your lawyer, I am counselling you to leave her alone until the hearing. As your friend... I'm begging you."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I understand, Rae. Thanks."

"See you at the hearing."

* * *

Maury Chiarello knocked briskly on the commissioner's door. "I have to hand it to you, Ma'am," he admitted with a wry smile. "That contact was gold."

Sawyer smiled. "I thought you might find it that way," she said.

"Pardon my asking, but do you know who...?"

"No," she said shaking her head. "And I don't care to. I'm more interested in their assistance than in trying to puzzle out who I'm dealing with. That particular mindset tends to make my dealings with the Capes a good deal less frustrating, as I'm sure you can understand." Her expression turned serious. "Detective, have you given any thought as to where you'll be conducting the interviews?"

Chiarello blinked. "My office, I guess. Why?"

Sawyer shook her head. "Use the empty one across the hall from mine. It's accessible from the roof, and the window overlooks the alley. It'll make your contacts' entrances and exits more... discreet."

Understanding flowed between the detective and the commissioner. "I'll let that dispatcher know," he nodded. "Thanks, Ma'am."

"Don't thank me," Sawyer shot back. "Thank them. They're trying to accommodate us. The least we can do for them is keep things as painless as possible."

* * *

On the way up the elevator to his office, Ron tried hard not to let his nervousness show. He'd always known that Les Paxton was a dangerous man to cross, but until now, he'd never thought his colleague would suggest something so patently _wrong_. Wrong, he reflected. Not just illegal, but wrong. Because, after all, legality and morality didn't always have to intersect. There were many business practices which were perfectly legal, but which on some level offended his sense of right and wrong. There were other laws—designed to penalize large corporations and level playing fields—that made him gnash his teeth in frustration. He was never surprised when Paxton found loopholes in those laws. He wouldn't have been shocked to hear that his colleague had paid off the right politicians at the right times so that various projects could get green-lighted without municipal interference. But he had never thought he'd see the day when he'd hear Les Paxton talk quite coolly about framing an innocent man for a serious crime.

He swallowed. Things were out of hand. Something needed to be done. Because if Les could do this to get someone like Wayne out of the way, Ron had no doubt that one day, Les would cook up some similar way to dispose of _him._

With these thoughts in his head, Ron turned the knob of the door to his office. His eyes opened wide, even as his heart plummeted to his shoes.

"Ron!" Bruce Wayne bounded off the couch and pumped his hand energetically. "How have you been keeping, you old dog? You look great. Have you been hitting the slopes at all, this winter?"

Ron tried to find his voice. "B-Bruce," he managed. "How are you?"

All at once, he became aware of soft laughter coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to behold Les Paxton standing in the doorway. "Is it a good likeness, or what?" Les said, shutting the office door. He strode forward and placed a fatherly hand on Ron's shoulder.

Ron blinked. Then he looked back to see that the man he could have sworn was Bruce Wayne was pulling off a latex mask. Beneath the mask was a scarred visage, capped by a mop of unruly brown hair. "What," he began weakly, "what's going on?"

Paxton's smile turned nearly feral. "Ron," he drawled, "this gentleman is the solution to our little problem. Ron Chester, I'd like you to meet..."

The stranger grinned back. "You may address me as 'False Face'."


	4. 3. When You Want to Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron Chester has a decision to make. Bruce takes his first steps toward the Academy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for help with Police vetting procedures and sample PHQ questions. Other questions taken from Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department PHQ.
> 
> "Hard Life" Lyrics performed by Jo Dee Messina on her Unmistakable: Love album (Curb, 2010).

_Hurry up, talk the talk_  
Say "yes sir", when you wanna walk  
And bite your tongue  
Tell yourself you're paying dues  
The trouble is ya know the truth

— _Jo Dee Messina, "Hard Life"_

 

**Chapter 3—When You Want to Walk**

It was instinctive. If someone stretched out a hand to him, Ron shook it heartily, without processing who the greeter was. One of these days, he knew, he'd come up on the wrong end of one of Joker's joy buzzers, but his great aunt Maude had always acted as though bad manners were a condition worse than death anyway. By the time he was five, he'd learned that if Great Aunt Maude were unhappy, usually, one way or another, _he_ ended up unhappy, too. So, although the last thing he wanted to do was smile and shake False Face's hand, he did so warmly. Then he looked to Les. "How does this work exactly?" he asked, wearing his best poker face.

Paxton smiled. "It's simple," he said calmly. "At some point prior to the court date, you and Sharon will meet to discuss strategy. At a prearranged time, during your little tête-à-tête, there will be a noise from outside. You'll both look up and see Bruce Wayne glaring at you through the window—so make sure the blinds, curtains, or what-have-you are open. Fortunately, you'll have your cell-phone with you and you'll have the presence of mind to snap a photo or two. Make sure you have the time and date stamp. Maybe get some shots of Sharon posing by the window either before or after Mister..." He chuckled. "Mister... er... Face shows up, to establish that Wayne was at her house and she didn't just hire a photographer to snap a candid shot of him somewhere else and later _claim_ it was at her house."

Ron thought quickly. "No offense to either of you," he said, "but didn't we suggest bringing in outside help at our first meeting? I thought we'd rejected that option."

For a moment Paxton looked puzzled. "What...? Oh, I think I know what you mean." He smiled. "You're talking about when someone suggested bringing Joker onboard. No," he turned to False Face. "We did strike that idea down pretty fast, and a good thing too. I don't deal with murderers, especially not those with a reputation for stabbing their friends in the back." All hint of joviality vanished. "I take a _very_ dim view of disloyalty."

Ron nodded, resisting the urge to ask him what exactly he thought he was doing to Bruce.

"Our new associate," Paxton continued, "may have something of a shadowed past, but at least it's not a violent one." He looked at False Face. "I presume you'll have no problem going to the meeting unarmed?"

False Face shook his head. "I've never enjoyed violence," he said. "It's why I started disguising myself in the first place; why bludgeon people standing between you and your goal when, if they think they can trust you, nine times out of ten, they'll either get out of your way or help you to that goal?"

Paxton beamed. "Sir, I believe I like the way you think." He turned to Ron. "See?"

Ron pretended to think it over. Then, with a calm he hadn't thought he could fake, he said, "I wish we'd discussed this earlier, Les. I really hate having surprises dropped on me like this."

"But you can work with it?"

Ron gave him a quick smile. "Just because I don't like having to think on my feet doesn't mean I _can't_ , Les. Leave this with me for a bit. I want to look at the angles; make sure we have all our bases covered."

Paxton nodded. "Try to get back to me by the end of the day," he said.

Ron let out a low whistle. "Good thing I work well under pressure."

False Face chortled. Paxton laughed. "Come on, False Face. Let's let the resident spin doctor turn our straw into gold."

The two men left his office. Ron slowly walked to his desk and slumped into his chair. This was just too much. Someone had to stop Paxton now, before things went any farther.

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham set down the paper and regarded Cass, his expression unreadable. Cass _should_ have been able to get an inkling of what was going through his head from his body language, but the asylum director was a rigid man, not given to stray movements. If he were more relaxed, she would be able to pick up more, but it was hard to read his movements when he made so few of them.

He was frowning, but that told her nothing. Frowns came more easily to him than smiles. He frowned if she arrived late, if she appeared too eager, if she appeared too anxious, if she needed to excuse herself to go to the bathroom, if she tried to make small talk—and she did try, hoping that it might set him more at ease. His current expression might be caused by a misplaced comma, or by the little yappy dog that someone had tied up outside the store across the street that was trying to jump on passersby.

"Well?" She asked finally.

Jeremiah handed her back the essay. "You're still leaving out articles," he rapped out. " _A_ murderer," he pointed to a paragraph on the page. "Here, and you make the same error again, here."

Cass nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, young woman," Jeremiah replied. "You were using them correctly until that paragraph. Then, it's as though you became careless."

She felt her face grow hot. "Not... careless," she mumbled. "Words... had to come fast. Couldn't write enough." How to explain what it had been like—to have the ideas practically screaming to come out on the page, when she could barely type one before the next caught her attention. She'd lost control of the essay. The thoughts had needed to come out, even if she hadn't had the right words or skills to express them. It had been like being caught in a flood—frightening, and yet strangely exhilarating—except that she had swum the tide... _clunkily_.

Arkham shook his head impatiently. "There's no reason to apologize for stream-of-consciousness writing," he said tartly. "It's undisciplined and undirected, yes, but there is a certain raw depth and power to it that you ought not to discourage." He pushed the page back to her. "However, once you _have_ let the words out, you need to review and revise."

Cass made a face. "Easy for you."

"Hardly," Arkham sniffed. "There is a tendency to be blind to one's own errors. That is why most people do show their work to others before submitting it. Unfortunately, the test that you intend to take follows a different paradigm."

She blinked. "Sorry?"

Arkham's frown disappeared. She couldn't exactly call the expression on his face a smile, but it was close. "Learn the rules, Cassandra. Master the syntax. And if you finish ahead of schedule, take advantage of the extra time to look over what you've written." He pushed a folder at her. "I would suggest that you use these study sheets for help with your civics," he added.

Cass looked in the folder. "You... did this... for me?"

Arkham cleared his throat. "You need the work. It's scarcely as though I had anything better to do with my time." He held up a hand, as though to ward off her smile. "Now, to work. Leave me to my newspaper in peace." He gestured to the pencil lying before her.

Cass nodded. "Thank you."

He harrumphed again and motioned to the practice pages.

* * *

Ron reached for the telephone and began to dial Lucius Fox's extension. He could have just hit the speed-dial, of course, but he thought he could use the extra couple of seconds to frame what he was going to say. Also, that was one button, whereas the extension was four. Which meant that if he changed his mind...

He hit three buttons before he replaced the receiver. What if he just told Les that this whole idea was preposterous? That they'd already had one thing go haywire with the plan, and that Les's idea of 'damage control' was moving their scheme out of 'nasty-but-necessary' and into 'downright illegal'? He hadn't signed on for any of this.

He was concerned about the possible loss of shareholder confidence should Bruce take over the corporate reins. Corporations had their ups and downs and were impacted by many factors—including sheer dumb luck. But with Wayne at the helm, who knew what that would do for PMWE's share values? Even if Wayne was now mentally fit, who was to say that, without Batman to occupy his time, he wasn't looking to take a more hands-on approach to the company? And that _could_ prove disastrous. So far as Ron knew, Bruce Wayne had no formal business training whatsoever. The man had left school at the age of fifteen and dropped off the face of the earth, only to return to Gotham a decade later. Not long afterwards, he'd hired Lucius Fox to handle the day-to-day running of the company and devoted his own day to spending as much time away from the board room as possible.

Ron reached for the phone again. His first loyalty was to PMWE, and whatever was in its best interests. And whether those 'best interests' included Bruce Wayne in the executive chair or not, Ron was reasonably sure that they didn't include being on the receiving end of a potentially messy lawsuit which basically boiled down to an attempt to wrest the company away from its majority shareholder. He didn't want to be a part of it. He couldn't be. But crossing Les Paxton wasn't a thing to undertake lightly and without forethought.

He could confront him. Threaten to go to Fox—or Wayne, for that matter, if Paxton didn't drop the idea. They could contain this without involving False Face. First Sharon's idea about a restraining order's effectiveness in her situation was completely wrong: it wouldn't keep Wayne from the gala or any other public place. It would keep him from approaching her, yes, but Paxton's original idea had hinged on _her_ approaching Wayne. And there would be hundreds of witnesses at the gala to attest to who confronted whom. The proper thing to do now, Ron realized, was for the PMWE board to distance itself from Sharon Ryerson. Drop the idea; let Wayne come to the gala. Really, just because he was attending a party didn't mean that he was looking to return to the company so fast. And even if that was a long-term goal, if Wayne was working slowly, then the board could afford to do the same.

As for Sharon, Ron frowned. He really didn't bear her any ill will. She was a deeply-troubled woman, still mourning the loss of her husband. Although he couldn't have predicted her taking out the restraining order, the fact remained that she'd probably never have gone that route had the board not decided to involve her. And now, the most sensible thing to do was to disavow her and let her bear the brunt of any repercussions. Threaten her with the same sort of messy legal processes that they'd initially used for Bruce—with one crucial difference. If Bruce was willing to deal with the media spotlight that a drawn-out legal battle would involve, he had the means and ability to fight back for as long as necessary. Sharon didn't. If she didn't agree to keep quiet about PMWE's involvement, the corporate lawyers would make mincemeat out of her. Bottom line: without funds, she couldn't afford the kind of legal representation she'd need to have a decent chance. PMWE would win and she would be left high and dry. He sighed. Justice and legality didn't always go hand in hand.

Still, Ron could just tell Paxton—now, today—that hiring False Face was too much, that if Paxton was intent on doing so, then he—Ron Chester—was out.

And Paxton would threaten him with something. Probably to blame him for the whole plan. The board would go along with that, Ron suspected. Someone had to be the fall guy, and most of the other members would just be happy if it wasn't them. Besides, he was already involved. It hadn't been Paxton chatting up Sharon Ryerson, nor any of the others. It should have been Ross Hendricks, he remembered. Paxton had designated him from the start. But Ross had pleaded off at the last moment—some client meeting that was running long—and begged Ron to step in. And, like a patsy, he'd done so. Ron mopped his brow. He was already in too deep.

_Ronnie, Ronnie..._ He blinked and looked around the room, wildly. For a moment, he could have sworn he'd heard Great-Aunt Maude. But he was alone. _Ronnie, when you're stuck in a hole, the first thing to do is STOP DIGGING!_

Ron Chester's eyes widened. He looked to his computer and moved the mouse to get rid of the screensaver. He called up his project folders. "No, that one's too bare bones," he muttered. "Too easy... Nowhere near ready... Ahhhhh!" He reached for his phone again, but he wasn't calling Paxton or Fox. "Frank? Do you have a moment?"

Frank Orczy, head of media relations, heard him out. Then he sputtered in disbelief. "At this point, we don't have enough trained people in the department, as it is. We're hoping to get clearance to hire a few more in a month—"

Chester's voice cut him off. "It's not high-level work, but there is a lot of it. Look, we've got a bunch of big projects on the burner now, and we don't want to lose momentum on any of them. Let me think." He frowned. "How about people who _used_ to work in your area but transferred out? Maybe their current bosses can spare them."

Orczy considered. "I have had a couple of folk leave in the last twelve months. Louisa Sherriff is already working for you, as I recall..."

Chester nodded. He'd been prepared for that suggestion. "I've had some turnover recently," he said. "She's already taken on extra duties. I can't give her more right now."

"Okay... let me think." There was a moment's silence on the line. "Lynwood Nguyen moved over to R&D."

Ron let doubt color his voice. "They're busy too at the moment, but I'll ask. Todorov's area?"

"Well, I believe Nguyen reports to Curlew, but Todorov's over Curlew, and he's probably a better one to talk to." He considered. "I have another name, for you. Richard Grayson. He was in media relations for just under two years, before he moved on to Risk Management."

Chester smiled. He'd been waiting for that suggestion. "Who's in charge over there?"

"Nadine Simms."

Chester nodded to himself. Now if Grayson was one of the only available candidates, Paxton _shouldn't_ suspect anything. Still, he should just make sure... "Anyone else?"

Orczy sniffed. "Nobody you'd want. Frankly, Sherriff would be my first choice for the kind of work you're describing. If I were you, I'd put her on it, then bring Nguyen and Grayson both on board if I could, and have them take on some of her current projects."

"Not a bad idea, Frank. I'll get in touch with Todorov and Simms. Thanks for the thought." He hung up the phone and let out a deep breath. _Step one accomplished..._

* * *

Bruce had been out the door at 7:45 that morning. If he was going to go through with this, then there was no point in delaying things any further. Sawyer had let him know yesterday that she'd assigned a backgrounder to his case—which meant that by now, the word was out among his peers. They were expecting to be contacted.

He grimaced. Sawyer had told him that the forms he needed to complete would be waiting for him any time after 9 a.m. on Monday. It was now Wednesday. Time to stop procrastinating and get started.

He got caught in the rush of morning traffic, and it was almost nine when he reached his destination. By the time he'd found a vacant spot in a nearby parking garage and made it up the steps of GCPD headquarters, it was five to nine. The way to Police Personnel wasn't marked, but Bruce had memorized the building blueprints long ago. When Akins had declared him _persona non grata_ , there had still been times when he'd needed to sneak into GCPD unobserved, and knowing the quieter entrances and exits had helped.

While all GCPD workers were municipal employees, the Police Personnel Office was a unit apart from the Gotham City Human Resources office. Following his memory brought Bruce to a small cinder-block room with a water cooler in one corner, a coffee machine in another, and a couple of couches lining the walls. Two uniformed officers were loitering at the cooler. Facing Bruce, directly opposite the door, was a counter topped by a domed window that resembled nothing so much as a movie theatre ticket booth. There was a small barred grille where the glass met the counter. The booth was empty. Peering through the glass, Bruce could see that there was an inner office behind the booth, with a door at the back wall. There was nobody in the office, though.

Bruce glanced at the two officers, but they didn't seem to notice him. Or at least they were pretending not to. He gave a mental sigh. _Brady cops_. Jim had explained to him that most police departments—and the GCPD was no exception—had officers on the payroll who were rotten enough to keep off the streets, but not quite "bad" enough to be fired—not without the Department risking a wrongful dismissal suit. Among other offenders, officers who had been known to lie about what a suspect had told them in custody fell into that category. A mistake like that, Jim had explained, followed an officer for life. Any suspect they collared was likely to walk free, simply because any judge or defense attorney worth their salt would summarily discount the testimony of any officer with a known history of falsifying evidence. Brady cops generally ended up working clerical and administrative jobs—like Permits, or Personnel—often, Bruce thought with a measure of irritation, while earning a six-figure income.

He seethed silently while the two men continued to talk among themselves. Five minutes passed. Seven. Ten. Perhaps, Bruce considered, he was mistaken. The officers might be here because this was the closest coffee machine, and he might just have arrived too early. He hadn't checked what time the office opened. He'd just presumed that if it was open at nine on Monday, it would open at the same time on Wednesday. There had been no hours posted on the door, although it had been unlocked. He cleared his throat.

The officers ignored him.

"Pardon me," he ventured.

Finally, one of them glanced his way. "Hold your horses, why don't you, Mac?" he said with some exasperation. "I'll be there in a second." He shrugged to his companion. "Sorry, Hawk. Duty beckons." He looked to Bruce. "Hang on," he repeated. He clapped the other officer on the shoulder. "Have a good one, Hawk. See ya."

The two men left the room, but a moment later the door at the back of the inner office opened and the officer-who-was-not-Hawk came in and made a show of puttering around. Five minutes later, he looked up, seeming annoyed to see Bruce still standing there patiently. With a long-suffering sigh, he finally walked into the booth area. "Yeah," he said, speaking into the microphone in a bored voice. "What do you need?"

Bruce suppressed his irritation. "Commissioner Sawyer told me that there was a packet for me?"

Not a flicker of interest from the officer. "Name?"

"Bruce Wayne."

Still no reaction. The officer reached down and slammed a thick manila envelope down on the counter. He raised the grille and pushed it forward. There was a large white label stuck to the top of the envelope with a set of typed instructions. Without looking at Bruce or the envelope, the officer began to recite, word-for-word, the information on the label.

"You have seventy-two hours to complete the paperwork." He met Bruce's eyes for the first time. "Starting now. Keep your schedule clear for the next seven days."

"I know," Bruce started to say. Maggie had told him as much.

"Sir, my instructions are to explain the rules to every applicant who comes around," the officer said with a twitch of his lips that hinted at a sneer. "It's procedure. Gotta respect proper procedures now, don't we? Seeing as _we_ operate by the book and all."

Bruce caught the not-so-subtle emphasis on the word 'we,' but forced himself to smile pleasantly. "Go right ahead."

"Right. You should have three things inside that. Better look inside to make sure it's all there. Clock's ticking." He looked at Bruce expectantly.

Bruce fought back his annoyance, tore open the envelope and removed a stack of papers.

"First thing you should have in there is a standard application for all Gotham City municipal employees from cops to street sweepers."

"It's here," Bruce nodded. It was six pages long and, from what he could tell, seemed to be asking for basic personal and employment information.

"Next packet has instructions for taking the PHQ online." The officer smirked. "That's a Personal History Questionnaire, in case you were wondering."

Bruce nodded again, looking at the second stapled sheaf of papers. It was almost as thick as the first. He flipped through it idly.

"PHQ has about a hundred sixty-seven questions to answer. You have two hours from the time you log in. If you need to get up for any reason, remember to pause the program. The timer will resume automatically when you continue." The officer snorted. "Sure glad I didn't have to go through that hell you're about to experience." He sounded downright cheerful. "Oh, and if you don't finish the test by the deadline, it's an automatic fail." He smiled then, as if relishing the thought. "Flunk it? You can forget your delusions about being one of us."

Bruce blinked, barely processing the jibe. _A hundred and sixty-seven?_ What was the interviewer going to have left to ask him at the face-to-face? He forced himself to ignore the officer's tone. It wasn't like he hadn't had to endure jabs like that during his two years in Arkham.

"You clear about the app and the PHQ?" the personnel officer asked, after Bruce stood unmoving for a few seconds too long.

He flipped through the pages quickly. "Yes."

"Good. Don't miss that last sheet. It's your appointment for the Live Scan. If you double-check the date and time, you'll find it's set up for... oh, about an hour from now."

"What?" The syllable escaped him involuntarily. Why hadn't Sawyer told him? If he hadn't come by today...

The officer continued in a monotone, as though Bruce hadn't spoken. "The Live Scan is the process we use to take your fingerprints electronically and run them against any records on file with the U.S. Department of Justice, the feds, the state, and other local agencies' databases. Don't worry," he added. "It won't leave you with ink stains."

"You said it's in an hour?"

The officer glanced at his watch. "Forty-one minutes and counting," he said. "Ain't it a shame you're just Batman and not the Flash?" This time, he did sneer. "Better get moving."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "Thanks for your help," he muttered as he spun on his heel and strode briskly out of the office.

On the steps outside GCPD headquarters, he called Barbara on his cell phone. "O, I need to know how quickly you can restore my fingerprint records to the necessary databases..."

* * *

Ron came back from lunch to find two young men waiting in his outer office. He smiled. "I hope I haven't kept you gentlemen waiting," he said heartily. "Mr. Grayson. Mr. Nguyen?" The two nodded. Ron shook their hands. "Come on in and I'll show you what I need." He glanced at his secretary. "Thanks, Bonnie."

When the two men entered his office, Ron's expression turned serious. "We're launching a couple of major initiatives over the next six months. Grayson, you're in Risk Management, so I'm sure you can appreciate the need for confidentiality."

Grayson nodded. Nguyen followed suit.

"Excellent. For that reason, I'd like to ask that you refrain from discussing the contents of your project files with one another. I want to stress," he added, "that it's not because I don't trust you. It's because, to be blunt, this building isn't soundproof. A lot of people think that corporate spying involves some shadowy figure breaking into an office after hours, or a master hacker figuring out the right passwords. That happens, but it's rarer than you might expect." He looked at the two of them. Grayson was nodding; Nguyen seemed to be feigning polite interest. "Many times, a corporate spy is someone who walks into the building acting like they belong here, follows an employee off the elevator, and keeps following them into a card-restricted area. This is a big place, and nobody knows everybody. What they do know is that, if they've opened a door and they see someone running—particularly if that someone is pushing a cleaning cart, or stumbling under a stack of books and papers—common courtesy dictates that they hold the door." He leaned back in his chair. "And common courtesy may allow a corporate spy into a restricted area. Once inside, that spy might learn a lot of classified information—just by walking up and down the hallways or hanging out in a locked stall in the bathroom. People talk among themselves; and sometimes, they talk about things that shouldn't be overheard. So, I want to be clear: work on these files by yourselves. Don't discuss the contents with one another. You'll find your instructions in a sealed envelope in the first folder. If you have any questions, no matter how trivial... you both have your smart phones on you?"

They nodded.

"Text or IM me. Any questions, comments, suggestions, you may have. If you can't find me, Louisa Sherriff is off-site today, but you're taking over some of her duties, so she probably knows what's going on."

Grayson frowned, but kept silent. The look on his face, though, told Ron that he was probably wondering what the rush was and why they weren't waiting for the project lead to return.

"Things are piling up pretty fast," Chester went on. "I'd feel a bit better if you two started putting a dent in the workload right now. So," he smiled, "roll up your sleeves, gentlemen. Mr. Nguyen," he picked up one stack of folders and handed them over, "these are for you. Mr. Grayson, here are yours. Now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where you're going to be working..."

* * *

Dick found himself in a small office with a chair, desk, and computer. From the size of the room and the quality of the furniture, it appeared to have belonged to middle management, but going by the lack of personal effects, nobody else was using it now.

Dick frowned. Ron Chester had seemed affable enough, but something had been bothering him. After that speech about confidentiality... Dick wondered whether something about one of the projects might have been leaked. Maybe he'd ask Oracle to check on it. Or perhaps he'd do a bit of after-hours detective work. Idly, he opened the top folder and removed the envelope with his name on it. That struck him as a bit odd. Nadine had implied that she was loaning him to marketing to do basic "grunt-work." Unless he or Lyn had specific skills that were an exact match for some aspect of the project—in which case, one might think they'd have been brought on board sooner, it shouldn't really matter who got what. He shook his head, smiling. This was one mystery he could solve easily enough. He tore open the envelope and extracted a folded sheet of paper.

_Mr. Grayson,_

_We need to meet off-site as soon as possible. Today would be best. Can you recommend a time and place? It is vital that we not be overheard._

_Ron Chester_

Dick stared at the page for a long moment. Then he looked at the papers in the folder. They were all blank. He checked the other folders and found more clean paper. His eyebrows lifted. Chester was going to a lot of trouble just to find a way to contact him that wouldn't arouse suspicion. He reached for his phone and texted:

_Looks like I finished my work. Want to grab a coffee at the Sundollars in the Stock Exchange?_

A moment later the response came back.

_Too close. Robinson Park? In front of the castle?_

Dick considered.

_I can be there in twenty minutes._

This time, Chester's response came a moment slower.

_I'll take Pierce Avenue. You take a different route. Go now. I'll leave in 10 minutes._

Dick texted his acknowledgement. He started to leave, but stopped. If Chester was right about being observed, it wouldn't do to leave the folders lying around. Anyone finding the clean pages would either realize that something was up, or possibly suspect Dick of substituting blank papers and making off with the information.

He headed back to his cubicle in Risk Management, locked the folders in his desk and grabbed his coat.

* * *

The Live Scan went by without incident. Bruce was back at the manor by noon. Nobody else was home; Selina had taken Helena downtown to do some shopping. Jim was likely down the path at the guest cottage where he had been living since Bruce's release from Arkham. He sighed. He should be happy to have the house to himself; if that cop in Personnel hadn't just been yanking his chain, he didn't need anything distracting him from the task at hand. Still, it had never been particularly pleasant to come back to an empty house. He smiled ruefully. Selina would be home soon enough, and then he'd be wishing he'd tackled the police application when he didn't have a toddler clamoring for his attention. Best to get started.

The standard application held no surprises for him. Name, address, date of birth, employment history—he'd rarely had to fill one of these out before, but he found it more tedious than onerous. It only took him a few minutes to complete, but it felt like longer. When he'd signed the last page, he took the PHQ questionnaire downstairs to the Cave typed in the url specified in the information packet, and logged in with the username and password that had been provided.

The first few questions were a rehash of the basic personal information he'd just filled out. His lips twitched at question 9.

**List and describe all Scars, Distinguishing Marks, Tattoos, etc., and where they are located.**

_All_ his scars? Did the text box have a character limit? He rolled his eyes and started typing. He didn't run out of room.

Next he was asked to list dependants and family members. He hesitated. Dick was a given, of course. Tim gave him pause. He'd been Tim's legal guardian, but Tim was now over 18. "Former guardian" wasn't a family tie. He left Tim out for the time being. He frowned. Would listing Helena open up a can of worms? Probably. They'd want to know who the other parent was, what their current relationship was, and, from what Jim had told him, they'd probably want to interview Selina as a character reference. That would be problematic, considering that Catwoman was still wanted in connection with several unsolved crimes. He'd need to discuss how she felt about walking into GCPD headquarters before volunteering her name. As far as Helena was concerned... Bruce considered. From a purely legal standpoint, there was nothing to tie him to Helena. Safest not to mention anything about her for now. He moved on to the next section with a pang, as though denying the relationship on paper had been a repudiation of his true feelings for her. What was the next question?

**List five persons** **NOT RELATED** **to you and** **NOT FORMER EMPLOYEES** **who have known you at least FIVE YEARS**.

This was going to raise a few eyebrows. He smiled as he typed Jim's name. Tim's came next. Then he added, _Superman, Flash, Doctor Mid-Nite_. He filled in the JLA's contact information for the last three.

The questionnaire moved into the "yes-or-no" section.

**Have you ever been ordered to pay child support or alimony?** That was a "no."

**Have you ever been terminated or resigned in lieu of termination?** That was a bit trickier, given his current status. He hadn't _exactly_ been terminated, but... But nothing, he realized. If he hadn't been terminated, then the answer was "no," end of discussion.

The questions continued:

**Have you ever been delinquent on income tax payments?**

**If yes, was it more than once?**

**Were you ever the subject of a military criminal investigation?**

**Has your license/privilege to drive, ever been Suspended or Revoked? (If "Yes," explain.)**

**As a driver, have you ever been involved in an accident where you left the scene without identifying yourself (hit & run)? If yes, please explain and give dates.**

He sighed. He'd never hit a person, but he'd caused quite a bit of property damage driving the Batmobile through plate-glass windows and the like. He thought about responding in the negative, but "hit and run" did apply to fixtures as well as to people. He brought up a new window on his monitor and started searching his case logs for the necessary information. At least, he'd always taken care to send adequate payment to cover the damages. They might take that into consideration.

**List each traffic accident that you have been involved in, whether your fault or not, as the driver of the vehicle.**

He winced. This was going to take a while...

* * *

When Dick approached the castle in Robinson Park, he found Ron Chester there ahead of him. "Okay," he said in a low tone. "Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?"

Chester glanced about nervously, as though expecting paparazzi to be lurking behind a nearby tree. Finally, he asked, "How's your... well, your father?"

Dick blinked. "He's doing better," he said carefully.

"I'm glad to hear that," Chester replied. "This... there've been some concerns."

Dick waited. "Okay..."

Chester lit a cigarette. "Have you spoken with him in the last couple of days?"

"Yeah, why?" When Chester hesitated again, Dick said, "Look, Mr. Chester, don't take this the wrong way, but I do a lot better when people just tell me what's on their mind. I mean," he smiled, "I'm a decent enough detective, I guess, but I'm no telepath."

Chester took another drag on the cigarette. "Has he mentioned anything about a restraining order?" The question came out so quickly that the words were nearly garbled.

Dick frowned. "No. No, he didn't. What's going on?"

Chester hunched forward. "That's... kind of a long story..."

* * *

Bruce clenched his jaw again and wondered why the rack and iron maiden evoked such horror in most people. He knew the answer: most people had never taken a PHQ. The questions seemed endless. He'd reached the multiple choice section by now.

**Approximately how often do you lose your temper?**

  1. **Once per month or less**
  2. **1-5 times per month**
  3. **More than once per week**
  4. **More than once per day**



He checked '1,' reflecting that his experience today had very nearly made it '2'.

**Have you ever attacked anyone in anger in the last 12 months?**

  1. **Never**
  2. **Once or twice**
  3. **3-5 times**
  4. **6 or more times**



He scowled, reminded himself that Joker counted, and checked '2'. His face drooped as he read the next question:

**...Within the last 5 years?**

He wasn't sure what was more ludicrous: his thinking that he had a snowball's chance in hell of passing this thing, or Sawyer's conviction of same. Jim had to be wrong. This was an elaborate way of letting him know that there was no way that he would ever be able to put on the suit again with the GCPD's sanction.

His fury started to build. It didn't matter. It wasn't like it was going to lose him any more points off of this damned questionnaire—

Abruptly, the sneering face of the Personnel cop rose in his memory. _Knew you didn't have it in you. Knew you'd give up your delusions of being one of us once the going got a little tough. Knew..._

If he'd had heat vision, there would be two holes in the screen right now. Instead, he saw only the question hanging there, awaiting his input. "D." They already knew the answer to this one anyway. And while the most sensible thing to do was walk away, quitting simply wasn't in his nature.

Sawyer knew what was on the test and she still thought he could qualify, he reminded himself.

A memory surfaced from months earlier. He'd resolved to take his first step back to what he'd once been: he'd asked Dick to train him. Dick had responded by ordering him to do twenty push-ups, but that hadn't been the real test.

For the first time in hours, Bruce smiled. _The real test had been whether he was willing to take direction, or whether he planned to run roughshod as he had in the past._

It didn't make sense for Sawyer to set him up for a test he was bound to fail—unless that was never the test in the first place. She needed to know whether he was willing to play by the existing rules before she went about trying to bend them for him.

_She needed to know that she wasn't about to sanction another Brady cop._

Bruce stared at the question for another minute. He paused the program, got up, walked over to the exercise area, and sat cross-legged on the mat. He closed his eyes and began a basic relaxation technique. After five minutes, he felt his tension drain away.

Ten minutes later, he walked back to the computer and resumed the questionnaire.

* * *

Dick heard Ron Chester out without interruption. When the VP had finished, Dick nodded slowly. "I appreciate your telling me. Thanks." He took a breath. "Okay. So, Paxton's still waiting to hear from you about the setup?"

Chester nodded. "Obviously, I'd like to turn him down, but I'm a bit concerned about retaliation."

"I hear you." He paused for a beat. "Call him. Tell him you'll keep the meeting."

"Wh-what?"

"Call him. Or call her to make sure that there _is_ a meeting, and then call him."

The VP swallowed hard. "And then?"

"You go to the meeting, I guess." He smiled, but there was something about that smile that made Chester take an involuntary step backwards. "Leave the rest to me..."


	5. 4. Interrogation Strategies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ron Chester plays a dangerous game, Bruce discovers exactly how thorough a police screening can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mild ableism.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for help with police procedures. Thanks to Elle and Xenith for free legal advice!
> 
> A/N: Commissioner Loeb is a canon character from Batman: Year One.
> 
> A/N: Interrogation lyrics performed by Waterdown on their Files You Have on Me album (Victory 2003).

_I'm not exactly the most wanted criminal_  
no I'm not I wasn't and I'll never be  
and may I question  
your interrogation strategies

_-Waterdown, Interrogation_

 

**Chapter 4—Interrogation Strategies**

Ron lit another cigarette, his second today. He'd thought he'd kicked the habit six months ago, but the events of the last few days had proven otherwise. He watched Grayson's retreating back as the younger man moved briskly away.

He swallowed hard. Grayson had been polite, even friendly. But there had been something about the look on his face that warned Ron not to mistake him for a pushover. He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and mopped his brow. Then he went back to his car, pulled out his cell phone and called Paxton. "Les," he said when Paxton picked up, "are you sure you want to go this route? If it backfires, the repercussions are going to be a lot worse than they would have been if we'd just dropped the whole thing."

"Then you'll have to make sure it doesn't backfire," Paxton said calmly. "If Wayne tries to take back the company, it could be a disaster. I don't think he had the mental competence for it _before_ his arrest, much less now."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Come on... he was Batman! He had to have something going on upstairs."

Paxton laughed. "Batman? Until the mob war, I didn't think there was any such person. After that..." His voice hardened. "If it was Wayne all along, I'm not surprised that he was as incompetent as a cape as he was as a CEO."

"Incompetent? Les, are you—?"

Paxton cut him off. "Listen to me, Ron. Wayne was an idiot who paraded around in a costume and got in the way of legitimate law enforcement. He was a blundering amateur who must have done more harm than good. And when he finally, somehow, won them over and got them to follow his lead, he got thirty of them killed. I think that our shareholders are going to take a very dim view of a... a... damned _lunatic_ at the corporate helm. We're all better off without him. Now, can I count on you?"

Ron gave a mental shrug. He'd done what he could to talk Paxton out it. "You know you can, Les. When did you have in mind?"

"You've been driving her to her second job for a little while, now. Does she work every night?"

"Every weeknight."

"See if you can set something up for Saturday evening, then. I'll contact one of my attorneys and see if he can be present at the meeting. I suppose," he continued sourly, "Ms. Ryerson will need some representation at that hearing."

That, at least, was a relief. "I'll sound her out when I pick her up tonight."

"Let me know if you hit any further snags," Paxton ordered. "Call me when you have her answer." The line went dead.

Ron took a deep breath. Then he picked up the phone again and sent a two-word text to Grayson's cell: Saturday night.

* * *

Selina found Bruce in the cave, staring at the computer screen. "How's it going?" she asked.

Bruce sighed. "I've been providing honest answers," he said. "Unless you'd prefer one of them, I'd suggest rescinding your question."

"That bad?"

The elevator doors parted behind them to admit Jim, as Bruce added, "Dick never mentioned anything quite this invasive when he applied to the academy."

"Were you even paying attention when he talked about it?" Selina asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course," Bruce replied. "I was still hoping I could convince him to quit."

Jim laughed. "I can't _think_ why he wouldn't have brought it up then," he said. His voice turned serious, although his smile remained. "Actually, I can. Police vetting procedures really got tough only in the last ten years or so, and the changes didn't all happen everywhere at the same time." He made a face. "Bludhaven actually had the dubious honor of being the last city in the country to adopt the stricter processes—I think I read something about that right around the time I left for Europe." He shrugged. "Dick just happened to sign up a year or two before they finally got with the program."

Bruce sighed. "It's to be expected. On the whole, his luck has been better than mine."

"Hold on a second," Jim held up a hand for emphasis. "Just because he had it a little easi _er_ doesn't mean he had it easy. What I went through as a rookie was pretty damned intense, and it would have been worse when it was Dick's turn. Even if it wasn't quite the ninth level of Hell it is today, that doesn't mean it wasn't as insulting and invasive as all get out, and I have a hard time calling anyone who went through some form of it 'lucky'."

Bruce let out a slow breath. "At least now I understand why the officer in personnel mentioned that he'd never had to take the test. I was wondering."

"What? Whether there was more than one job track and Sawyer was arbitrarily pointing you down a harder road?" He shook his head. "They grandfathered in the officers accepted under the old rules, but all new candidates go through the grilling. I'll admit that non-sworns aren't roasted for quite as long, but somehow, I don't think you'd be satisfied stuck behind a desk."

Bruce frowned. "Non-sworns?" He felt like he should know this one, but then he'd never really paid much attention to the different category types within the GCPD. His main interactions had been with Jim and, at times, with whichever officers happened to be on-hand when he turned a collar over to them.

"Police staff who don't wear badges and aren't classed as peace officers. In other words, civilians who work for the department. They aren't academy-trained, and most of them get spared the polygraph, but they still get grilled. And even some non-sworns go through what you're facing now, because if they handle evidence or other sensitive information, we need to know that they can keep their integrity intact."

While Bruce remained silent, Jim added, "Look. It's your call. It always is. But the way I see it, if you're putting yourself through this level of torture anyway, then you might as well go for the whole thing and qualify for what you absolutely want down the road." He gave Bruce a meaningful look. "And short-term, well, I doubt you want to go through all of this just to end up working parking enforcement, do you?"

Bruce shot him an expression of pure horror.

"That's what I figured. So." He sat down. "Besides being insultingly invasive, how _are_ you finding the questionnaire?"

Bruce hesitated. "I... may have hit a snag with the full disclosure," he admitted, glancing briefly at Selina. "They're going to want to know about any current or past... personal relationships." He looked at Jim. "You said that I could expect to have everyone I know be invited downtown for an interview."

"Well, in some cases, they'll visit," Jim said, "but yes."

Bruce looked at Selina. "How... comfortable would you be with that process? I..." He looked away. "I understand if you'd prefer to leave temporarily. Until the GCPD makes their decision."

Selina shook her head. "Don't you think I've done enough of that?" She smiled. "Besides, I don't think they're going to handcuff me to a chair and take turns interrogating me—that's more your kids' style."

"What?" Jim frowned.

Bruce coughed. "It was after Rich shot you. We needed answers quickly and," he looked back to Selina, "you weren't in the mood to provide them." He swallowed. "And my judgment was impaired or I would have tried other methods."

"You mean like _asking_ me?"

Bruce looked away. "That might be a wiser tactic to use in the future, yes." He took another breath. "Or right now, for that matter. _Are_ you willing to speak with the backgrounder?" He leaned forward. "Is it _safe_?"

"Oh, I can keep my claws sheathed," Selina grinned. "He'll be fine." She laughed. "Okay, okay. Working with the Birds has its advantages. If anyone tries to run my prints, it'll come up 'no match found' unless I _want_ a match to come up."

"But when they ask whether I've had dealings with known criminals," Bruce said, "obviously, I'm going to need to mention my... people, since vigilantism falls under that rubric. However..."

"Ah," Selina smiled. "No worries on that front. I got it taken care of months ago. Why don't you run a check on Catwoman in the criminal databases right now?"

Puzzled, Bruce obeyed. His eyes slid over the record and then snapped back. " _Selma_ Kyle?"

Selina burst out laughing again. "It seems like some idiot booking clerk made an error that wreaked havoc with my life. Selina. Selma. I guess the handwriting on the original papers was a little hard to read. Anyway," she continued innocently, "I had no _clue_ who this 'Selma' person was, until I went to get my license renewed and nearly got arrested, and then... oh boy did I raise a stink! Go on. Run a check on 'Selina Kyle' now and see what comes up. You should have a lot of nasty letters to the authorities demanding that they fix their records." Her smile grew wider. "Bottom line: Selina Kyle has no criminal record. As far as the authorities are concerned, she's _not_ Catwoman; that would be this Selma character... And I can assure you, Bruce my dear, that Catwoman has no intention of _ever_ getting caught."

Bruce typed in the necessary instructions. After a moment, he looked back at her. "Intentions aren't everything. That being said, this does make things simpler."

Jim cleared his throat. "So when they ask you point-blank about whether you've ever had dealings with criminals and not turned them in..."

Bruce looked from Jim to Selina, and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Sometimes, despite my efforts to bring Catwoman to justice, she managed to give me the slip. That's not even a lie." He hesitated. "About Helena... I would rather it not be recorded that she's my daughter. For her safety."

"Yeah, if some hacker found that bit of intel," Selina swallowed hard. "I already know how you feel about her, Bruce. I'm not about to pick a fight with you over sensible precautions."

Bruce looked at Jim. "Well?"

Jim sighed. "Well," he said reluctantly, "if there's no proof of criminal activity, there's no use bringing it up. It's not like the DA's office would want to move on it without evidence." He looked down. "That's probably your best defense if they start needling you on that score: because of the line you were walking, you didn't want to attack anyone unless you were _positive_ that you were chasing the right person." His expression hardened. "But I'm telling you, Bruce—assume that when they're asking you invasive questions, nine times out of ten, they've got the answer in front of them and they just want to see if you're going be honest about it."

"I know." Bruce sighed heavily. "Thanks." He frowned. "I don't seem to be able to go back and change my references on the online form."

"Just mention it at the interview," Jim advised. "But be prepared to be asked in detail about how serious you two are."

"Oh?" Selina asked archly. "Maybe we should get our stories straight, then. How serious are we?"

Bruce gave her a hard look which quickly turned to a rueful smile. "Serious enough that when you needed a place to stay after one of my old enemies threatened you—which is essentially what happened—you came to me and you've been staying here for a few weeks." He reached for the glass of water behind him and took a sip.

"Ah," Jim said. "And are you two sleeping together?"

Bruce spat water over the monitor. "I beg your pardon?" He sputtered as Selina laughed.

"Hey. The backgrounder is going to ask it."

"Oh, for..." Bruce grabbed for the napkin and began mopping the screen. "That's none of his damned business."

"Well, if you tell him that, it's an automatic disqualification," Jim shot back. "I told you this was going to be invasive. I wasn't kidding. _Nothing_ is off-limits. Nothing is sacred." He leaned in closer to Bruce. "And if _you_ were conducting this kind of investigation, would you even question whether you were going to look into this stuff?"

"I..." Bruce shook his head helplessly. "Fine. I'll anticipate the question."

"We both will," Selina said.

Bruce took a deep breath, turned back to the screen, answered the question that he'd been looking at before and blinked. "I believe," he said slowly, "that I may finally be done with this." He typed the instructions quickly and submitted the file. Then he reached for the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Selina asked.

Bruce reached for a post-it note with a number scrawled on it. "The background investigator. He said to call as soon as I'd finished."

"That fast?" Selina blinked.

Bruce had his mouth open to reply when a voice came on the other end of the line. "Yes, am I speaking with Detective Chiarello?" His voice was firm and businesslike, with none of Batman's gravel or 'Brucie's' polite befuddlement. He pulled his focus back to the phone, but not before he caught the faint smile of approval on Jim's face. "Detective, this is Bruce Wayne. You'd said to get in touch with you—yes, I've just submitted it. Yes, I'll hold."

In response to their questioning looks, Bruce covered the mouthpiece. "He's just making sure he's got—Yes, Detective, I'm here. No... What? Um... yes. Yes I... I suppose I can. I'll see you... shortly."

He ended the call looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"What?" Selina asked.

Bruce looked from her to Jim, and then back to the phone. "He wants me to come in for the interview at six."

"Tonight?"

Bruce nodded. "And since that means going out in rush hour traffic," _for the second time today,_ he added mentally, "I need to leave now."

Selina wrapped her arms around his neck. "Good luck, handsome," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Now get out of here."

"Better change first," Jim interjected. "You're hardly dressed for a job interview."

"Noted," Bruce acknowledged, hugging Selina back. Then he turned and headed upstairs.

Selina sighed. "I guess I'd better get supper on before Helena wakes up from her nap. Want to come keep me company?"

Jim shook his head. "I think I'm going to call my daughter. I have a few things to discuss with her."

* * *

Sitting in her monitor womb, Oracle gulped. She hadn't _meant_ to eavesdrop that long; she'd only been wondering how Bruce was making out with the questionnaire.

Her comm-link buzzed. "Hi, Dinah."

"I just thought you might want to know," Black Canary said breathlessly, "I'm meeting with the backgrounder tomorrow at nine."

"That's... great," Barbara smiled. "Really great."

"Babs? Is something wrong?"

Barbara sighed. "Oh... nothing the Federal Witness Protection Program couldn't cure..."

* * *

Back at GCPD, Bruce gave his name to the receptionist at the main desk and took a seat in the waiting area. It was only a moment or two before a trim man with a shaved head and a neat salt-and-pepper mustache, who appeared to be a few years younger than Jim came out. "Mr. Wayne? Detective Marcio Chiarello. If you'll follow me, please."

"Hey, Maury," one of the desk clerks said.

"Hey yourself, Gwen." He turned back to Bruce. "This way."

Bruce followed the detective upstairs, down the hall past the commissioner's office, and into a side office with no nameplate outside the door. There wasn't much in the room beyond a desk, two chairs, and a machine he recognized at a glance.

"I trust you have no objection to taking a polygraph?" Chiarello asked.

"Not at all." Bruce hesitated. "I know that you're aware that they can be inaccurate," he said.

"How about you let us worry about that?" Chiarello said. "The polygraph is just one of the tools we use."

"I understand," Bruce said, taking his seat. "I'd like to mention though, that Wonder Woman has a more accurate method, if you'd like to take advantage."

"Nothing doing," Chiarello said, taking his own chair. "We're bending enough regulations for you as it is." He frowned. "Okay. Here's how the process works from this point on. I'm going to go over your answers from the PHQ, as well as some other things that came up during my investigations. This will probably take a couple of hours. Usually, we wouldn't use the polygraph unless you qualified for a second interview, but seeing as the commissioner's asked me to fast-track this, we're rolling two sessions into one. We're also going to be speaking to some of the people who know you. You do realize that although you have provided references, we're not in any way restricted to calling them alone, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay. _If_ everything checks out, you'll get a call in a couple of days asking you to come down for a psych evaluation. Your scores and results will then pass to committee, and if they approve you, you're good for the academy."

Bruce frowned. "I was told I could bypass that if I passed the final examinations."

Chiarello shrugged. "That's between you and the commissioner, Mr. Wayne. Frankly," he got up and walked over to the polygraph machine, "I wouldn't worry about those examinations until _I'm_ done with you." He held up two long rubber tubes. "Okay, I guess you know the drill. These go around your chest and abdomen to measure your respiration."

Bruce nodded and offered no resistance as Chiarello attached the tubes, placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm, and attached galvanometers to his fingers. Satisfied, he walked back to the machine and flipped a few switches. A low buzz filled the room.

Chiarello returned to his desk. "Right. Let's get started. I'm going to ask you a few basic questions and I want you to answer truthfully. Will you state your name for the record?"

"Bruce Wayne."

"What is your address?"

"1007 Mountain Drive, Bristol."

"What is your date of birth?"

Bruce gave it.

"All right. Now, I'm going to repeat those questions and I want you to lie to me..."

* * *

"Did you know she's got a rap sheet?"

Paxton frowned and gripped the telephone a bit tighter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Petty vandalism, property damage, creating public disturbances... Not to mention last summer when she spent a day in jail on contempt charges."

That brought him up short. "Why wasn't I informed?" He demanded.

His lawyer laughed harshly. "Did you even check her out? Les, not every crime makes the papers. If they did, you'd read about a lot more shoplifters and DUIs. I'm not saying I can't win the case, but this isn't going to be the cakewalk you made it sound like when we spoke earlier. Especially not once Wayne launches a countersuit."

Paxton clenched his other hand into a fist. "Do everything in your power, Morton," he gritted. "Earn your retainer's fee."

"I will," Morton replied, stung. "But unless there's some sort of evidence on her side that would make this thing more than 'her word against his,' I don't see it ending well. Have a good evening, Lester."

Paxton slammed the phone down on the table. Then he picked it up again and hit a speed-dial button. "Ron. Have you set up a—oh, you have? Saturday evening at seven? Excellent. I'll complete the arrangements on my end. Just make sure you have a working camera." He hung up.

"Excellent," he whispered with just a bit less self-assurance than usual. It was still going to work out, he told himself. Everything was _still_ on track.

* * *

Bruce was in Hell. He was sure of it. One of his old foes had recognized him walking into GCPD headquarters and shot him on the spot and he was going to spend the rest of eternity answering these questions. And he'd wondered what would be left to ask after he'd completed the PHQ. Chiarello was using those as a starting point.

He'd had an eventful life. He knew that. But going over it now, piece by piece, was agonizing. His natural reaction to interrogation was to stay silent and glare. Suppressing that instinct was taking its toll. He was actually relieved that Jim had convinced him not to try to fool the polygraph. With the stress he was feeling, Bruce wasn't positive he could have pulled it off.

Chiarello kept firing off questions.

Bruce struggled to not sound defensive as he replied. Yes, he had been arrested four times. Twice for murder, once for treason, and once for vigilantism. True he'd been exonerated on the first three counts and found not criminally responsible on the fourth. It still didn't sound good. He reminded himself that it wasn't supposed to sound _good_ ; it was supposed to be truthful.

"Regardless of who was at fault," Chiarello began again, "have you ever had a physical altercation with anyone not mentioned on the PHQ? Or... you know what? Let me rephrase. Not counting the time you spent in Arkham, how many days have gone by in the last...um... decade or so, when you _haven't_ had a physical altercation with someone?"

Bruce fought back a surge of irritation with a basic meditation technique. _He's trying to see if you have a volatile temper. Relax. Don't let him rile you._ "Not many," he admitted. "I gauged the amount of force to use on a hostile based on the amount of force that the hostile was attempting to use against me. Someone attempting to injure or kill me was injured in turn. Someone who ran, I chased to apprehend but used minimal force."

"Were you aware that minimal force is still assault?"

"Yes." He wondered how much remorse he should be coaxing into his voice.

Chiarello stared down his nose at him. "Hope you aren't under the impression we'll look the other way if something like that happens now," he said. "We've come a long way since Loeb's administration. Ever taken anything from a former employer or anyone else without permission? That includes stuff like office supplies, password codes, evidence from a crime scene..."

Bruce employed a more advanced relaxation technique. "Yes."

"All those billions coming to you from Mommy and Daddy's will and you still found it necessary to steal."

_I suppose I COULD have bribed an officer to give me the intel I needed. It's not like I didn't know who the crooked cops were._

Aloud, he said, "At times, I believed that it _was_ necessary, yes."

Chiarello grunted and moved on through the questions. Bruce kept his voice level as he replied. _They already know the truth, he kept reminding himself. Sawyer wouldn't be wasting your time subjecting you to this if she meant to automatically disqualify you. None of this puts you in a good light. That is the POINT. If you'll lie to protect yourself now, they have every reason to expect you'll lie to protect yourself later. Relax. Don't let the questions get to you. Relax..._

"When and where was the last time you were present when others were using illegal drugs?"

Bruce thought back. "It was within a week of my arrest. I'm... sorry. I don't have the precise date. I can tell you that I left the perpetrators... wait. I don't know if they were _using_ the drugs. The Bowery Barons had approximately 25 kilos of crack-cocaine in their possession that they intended to sell on the street. I left them tied up in a garage on Logerquist after dropping off the evidence with the first patrol car I spotted. I believe that the officer I spoke to was... Manapul."

"Tony Manapul?" Chiarello grunted. "I know him. I'll see if he remembers. So the last time you saw anyone using was about three years ago?"

"Yes."

"Let's move on, then. Have you ever sold, bought, delivered, manufactured, grown, produced, or injected any controlled substance?"

Bruce nodded. "Yes. Between my night activities and my training—not to mention the time that I was shot on the courthouse steps when I was on trial for treason, I've had occasion to use a number of prescription painkillers. These have included opiates." He frowned. "Medication was prescribed to me at Arkham. I believe that some of it might have been on the list of controlled substances. Unfortunately, I don't recall the specific drugs involved. Also, I don't know whether you've received my medical records from immediately before my transfer to Arkham, but I was given a dose of Desoxyn without my knowledge or consent."

"It's here," Chiarello nodded. "My fault. That one's phrased a bit broadly. Let me ask you this: apart from the Desoxyn, have you taken any controlled substances that weren't prescribed to you by a doctor?"

"No." Was it his imagination, or had Chiarello begun to thaw, just a little?

"How about steroids?"

Bruce sighed. He couldn't say Jim hadn't warned him about this one. "Over fifteen years ago. Do you want the details?"

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Go for it."

* * *

"Seriously?"

The younger cop poured himself another cup of coffee from the urn. "Yup. Gwen saw him come in. He's up with Chiarello now."

A third officer made a face. "Better him than us."

Laughter. Agreement.

"Say," the younger cop ventured, "you think he'll pass?"

"Do I think he'll pass?" a fourth cop drawled. "Only if he gets to rewrite the rulebook so we do things his way—and yours truly isn't putting on no cape an' tights!"

More laughter.

"Besides, you know what happened the last time people trusted him to have their backs. Who d'you think's gonna want to ride with him in a squad car?"

"I would," the younger cop said. "Seriously." As the others laughed, he repeated, "I would!"

"So would I," said the first officer.

"You, Kyle? Wasn't your partner one of the twenty-eight?"

"Yeah, he was. Ever held a command in a war zone, Matt? Because I have. And let me tell you something about that. Sometimes you don't have all the facts you need to make an informed decision, but you still have to give the orders based on what facts you do have. Yeah, he commandeered the force, but did you ever stop and think why we all followed him?"

Silence.

"It's because he had a record over sixteen years strong for getting the job done. Now it's a damned shame that we lost a lot of good people that day, but if he'd been one of ours, there would have been an inquiry, probably some extended leave time, and then he'd have been back in the squad room. Well," he glanced up at the ceiling, rolling his eyes, "he's been 'away' for a couple of years, and seeing as the commish pulled Chiarello out of IA to handle his backgrounding, I'd say he's getting that inquiry—better late than never. Bottom line, I think the department would have to be run by idiots not to jump at the chance to have him onboard. And if they're looking for volunteers to partner up with him, I'm sticking my name in the hat."

"Until he gets you killed, Robbins."

"Funny. I could've _sworn_ all those mobsters had something to do with that bloodbath." A sigh. "Anyway, _ladies_ , I'm heading back to finish my paperwork." He made a face. "Maybe if I do land myself that rookie, I can fob some of those reports off on him."

* * *

Chiarello wasn't thawing after all. His questions just kept coming. It was a battle of wills now. The backgrounder seemed to be waiting for him to make a misstep or tear off the electrodes and storm off in a huff. Bruce couldn't deny he was tempted, but he was also damned if he was going to hand him that victory.

"Since you were fourteenyears old, have you ever shoplifted anything?"

 _Shoplifted?_ "No."

"Have you ever stolen money from a place where you work?"

 _Not money._ "No."

"Have you ever taken a motor vehicle without the owner's permission?"

"Yes. May I explain?"

Chiarello nodded. "Go ahead."

"I was in pursuit of Joker. One of his goons got a lucky shot and took out the Batmobile's front tire. He'd threatened to set off a Smilex grenade in an elementary school if his demands weren't met. I couldn't risk losing him. A motorcyclist was coming by. He had to slow down to get around the Batmobile. I intercepted, unseated him, and took off after Joker on the motorcycle."

"You catch him?"

"Yes."

"Was the bike okay?"

"No. I tracked down the owner and had a new one delivered to his front door with my apologies."

Chiarello's expression didn't change. "Ever stolen a credit card?"

"No."

"Ever been ashamed of taking something from anyone?"

"Yes."

"Ever received stolen property?"

"Yes, as part of a sting operation."

"Aw, you didn't ask if you could elaborate that time," Chiarello smirked. "Ever obtained property under false pretences?"

"Yes. May I clarify?" He managed not to spit the words out.

"Sure, go for it."

"It was another sting operation. I was working closely with then-Commissioner Gordon at the time."

"Ah." Chiarello made a notation on his pad. "Ever filed a false insurance claim?"

"No."

"Are you deliberately withholding information from me about something you have stolen?"

"No."

There was a rustle as Chiarello turned over a page. "Have you ever struck another person—outside of play, athletic competition, or scope of employment—since the age of eighteen?"

Bruce sighed. He hadn't liked this section on the online form, and he wasn't going to like it now. "Yes."

"Have you ever struck a child which resulted in injury or bruising?"

"May I explain?"

"Oh, I think you'd better."

Bruce sighed. "If we're defining 'child' as 'minor,' I have used physical force against gang members. I've tried to use less force when my opponents were clearly underage, but if they were armed, I defended myself."

"And if we're talking a bona fide child?"

"I've trained my partners. There were a few occasions when I misjudged their moves and a blow which I expected them to counter... connected."

"So, accidental?"

"Yes, but accidental or deliberate, bruises were caused." Bruce took a deep breath.

"Have you ever unlawfully taken the life of another human being?"

He exhaled. "No."

The interrogation continued.

* * *

"So, under the circumstances," Dick was saying, "I don't think going there in costume is the brightest move. I'd go in civvies, but I have no way of knowing which road he's going to be taking to enter Battergate."

The man on the other end of the video chat nodded soberly as he ran a hand through close-cropped blond hair. "So you need someone who can cover all potential entry points," he said, catching on.

"Plus the fact that you're a police officer helps. Hopefully, if GCPD spots you, they'll think you're one of theirs."

Barry Allen frowned. "I could do it like that," he admitted, "but there might be an easier way. I'm off-duty now, and I can't access the KPD records remotely, but can you check on your end whether there are any open files that could conceivably fall under joint jurisdiction? Any Gotham-Central City connections at all? Or Keystone, for that matter?"

Dick considered. "Let me look into that. You have an idea?"

Barry nodded. "I've done reserve officer training. It's encouraged for criminologists. Actually," he coughed, "I wrote the Detective exam last year. So, I really _am_ a sworn officer, these days. Anyway CCPD heartily endorses the idea of officers volunteering in other jurisdictions to get a feel for how other departments handle things. The main issue," he said seriously, "is timing. You want me to be in Gotham three days from now. For that, I need to present them with some reason like..." he shrugged, "I don't know... someone we've been trying to collar for a while who's lying low in Gotham. Or, someone from Gotham who's just become a headache for us and we're hoping a chat with some his old contacts might furnish a few leads." He smiled. "Give me something like that, and I might be able to get the paperwork approved by noon tomorrow."

Dick grinned back. "On it."

* * *

Chiarello poured himself a glass of water. "Want some?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head.

"Are you currently in a relationship?"

Bruce frowned. "That's not... clear. May I explain?"

"Go ahead."

Bruce took a breath. "Last month," he said, "a woman I had dated before my arrest contacted me. One of my old foes had surprised her at her apartment. Because of my circumstances, my home security system is formidable. She's been staying with me for nearly four weeks. I'm not sure whether to call that a 'relationship' or whether it falls under 'friendship'."

"Mmm. Are you sleeping with her?"

Jim had been right. "No."

"When was the last time you slept with her?"

Bruce's eyes went flat. "Three years ago."

"Were you sleeping with anyone else at the time?"

 _Oh, for crying out loud!_ "No."

"Ever had a threesome?"

"WHAT?"

Chiarello leaned forward, clearly enjoying himself. "Have... you... ever had... a... threesome... with or without her?"

Bruce glowered. "No."

"How about with an animal?"

"Oh for... no! No."

"Have you ever paid for sex?"

"No."

"Have you ever _been_ paid for sex?"

"I've been offered payment not to contradict a starlet who thought that claiming she'd had sex with me would somehow give her an edge at an upcoming audition."

"Did you take the payment?"

"No. I ignored the story." His lips twitched. "Apparently, the media did too... at least, her career doesn't appear to have gone anywhere."

"Who was she... just out of curiosity?"

Bruce frowned. "Myra... something. Fontaine? Fontana?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It was over ten years ago." _Maria Delafontaine, but that one's really none of your business._

Chiarello shrugged. "No big deal. "Have you ever destroyed or damaged property?"

"Yes." _And you asked me that already._

"Have you ever been the subject of a restraining order?"

Bruce sighed. "I am at present."

Chiarello chuckled. "Yeah, I saw. Any others?"

"No."

"Ever tortured or abused an animal or been present when others did?"

"I was present," Bruce nodded. "And I put a stop to it."

"Are you currently under investigation by any law enforcement agency concerning any alleged violation of the law?"

Bruce sighed. "To the best of my knowledge, no."

"Have you committed or taken part in any crime that you were not punished for?"

"That depends on how you view the time I spent at Arkham," Bruce replied. "I was found to be not _criminally_ responsible for my actions; however I'm not certain whether you would consider my two years there to be punishment." _If you don't, I may argue the point._

"Ever thought of committing a crime you didn't carry out?"

 _Who doesn't? Admit it: you threw this one in to see if anyone answering 'no' can fool a polygraph._ "Yes."

"Would you have any reason to be concerned about an investigation into your honesty?"

"Yes. May I explain?"

Chiarello shrugged. "Be my guest."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Having a secret identity has its... difficulties. ... It's fair to say that I told a number of untruths to safeguard my activities. So, if you were to contact old friends and acquaintances whom I fobbed off with one excuse or another while I was trying to find a secluded place to change into costume to answer the Signal—" he sighed, "particularly women with whom I broke dates in order to pursue a criminal investigation—it's fair to say that the picture they would paint for you would be rather bleak on that front."

"My heart bleeds for you. Have you ever entered or remained on the property of another, knowing you did not have permission of the owner to do so?"

"Yes."

"Right now, are you thinking about a specific crime that you have committed that you are intentionally withholding?"

"No."

Chiarello laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head as he leaned back. "Okay," he said, letting out a breath, "we're done. Let me get those things off you."

Bruce exhaled too.

"You eaten?"

Bruce blinked. He was about to say that he wasn't hungry, until he remembered that the polygraph was still on. "No."

"Grab your coat," Chiarello ordered. "We'll head over to Finnegan's. My treat."

Bruce started to shake his head. "No, thanks."

"Why? You'd rather have _filet mignon_ or pheasant under glass? Look, if you're hoping to rub elbows with the rest of us working stiffs, you can have a burger and a couple of beers like everyone else. That's if you still think you've got a chance at _being_ one of us." He reached over and unfastened the galvanometers. "C'mon. If we hurry, we can get stools at the counter, and you can watch while something other than you gets grilled."

Bruce clenched his jaw. Was this also part of the interview process, he wondered? Hungry as he was, the last thing he wanted to do was go to dinner with the man who had spent the last couple of hours tormenting him—particularly since he suspected that this was going to be another test. But if dinner with the backgrounder was part of the vetting, he knew he had no choice. He'd come too far now to walk away. "Fine."


	6. 5. Testimonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's ordeal isn't over yet. Meanwhile, the first six Caped Character References get interviewed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: According to The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City, the Metropolis Monarchs relocated to Gotham after the No Man's Land.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta.
> 
> A/N: "You're My Witness" written by M. Jason Greene and Clay Walker. Recorded by Clay Walker on his Fall album (Asylum-Curb, 2007).
> 
> A/N: Officer Kyle Robbins is an OC who last appeared in Lost to the Night.

_Standing here. I can look you in the eyes.  
And without a question. I can testify._

— _M. Jason Greene, Clay Walker: You're My Witness_

**Chapter 5: Testimonies**

Dick called Barry nearly an hour later. "Calvin Monroe."

Barry frowned. "Who?"

"He used to work for the Roman, back in the day," Dick explained. "After Batman took out the bulk of that family, Monroe fell off the radar. Except that according to a paper trail that he hasn't tried hard enough to hide," Dick transmitted the electronic file with a grin, "he seems to be your headache right now."

Barry smiled back. "I figured you'd find an angle. Well... this is good for us," his smile dropped away, "but lousy for the Central-Keystone area. The Roman, you say?" He shook his head frowning. "The name doesn't ring any bells for me—not at all." He sighed. "And police files only tell part of the story," he added. His frown changed to a scowl. "There are a lot of missing details in this dossier. Almost like they were being deliberately held back. Do you figure this... Roman was making payoffs?"

Dick nodded. "That went on a lot before Gordon took over. Bruce had to work extra hard to find enough evidence for the DA's office to even think about building a case."

Barry sighed. "Well, then," he said slowly, "I guess if I can't find all the facts in the official records, it looks like I've got no choice but to come to Gotham and see if I can talk to some of the veteran officers who were around at that time. Ever since we got rid of the Combine, there hasn't been much organized crime in these parts, period," he added. "Which means that we're a bit rusty on some of our procedures." His blue eyes opened wide as he smiled. "Frankly, it wouldn't hurt to get some hands-on experience in a city that does have a mob presence. I think I should probably run that idea by my supervisors," he added innocently. "What do you think?"

Dick laughed. "Let me know when you've got everything set up. The city's changed a lot since the last time you were here. I'll see if Bruce and I can give you the grand tour."

* * *

Notwithstanding Chiarello's jab at haute cuisine, Bruce had rarely been one to turn up his nose at a burger. His father had never been much for turning on the barbecue. That was probably part of the reason that he enjoyed them. Hamburgers and pizza were two foods that didn't trigger memories of happier times. There had been a couple of years in his boyhood when he had practically lived on them—much to Alfred's dismay.

He'd grown up, of course. He'd travelled to countries where hamburgers took a distant back seat to rice, satays, curries, and kebabs. And in the interest of keeping up his socialite image, he'd exchanged fast food for gourmet cuisine—until Dick came into his life, of course. Even Alfred had agreed that man didn't live on _vichysoisse_ alone.

No, Bruce had no objection to the dinner menu—only to the company. He supposed that this was one of the differences between being interrogated as a potential new hire versus being interrogated as a suspect: suspects weren't expected to dine with their interrogators after the interview. For the briefest instant, as he followed Chiarello to the underground parking garage, he wondered whether there was some way he could frame himself for something relatively minor—just to get out of dinner. Almost at once, he realized that it wouldn't work. Even if he could come up with something in the next two minutes, all he'd probably end up doing would be to disqualify himself entirely from the proceedings.

By now, that was unacceptable. He'd passed a certain point in his thought processes that took walking away off of his list of options. After all the stress he'd subjected himself to, he wasn't about to withdraw and let his efforts go to waste. No, he was in this for the long haul now.

He wondered whether this meal wasn't part of the personality assessment. Did Chiarello mean to ply him with beers to verify whether he had a drinking problem? He knew that some potential employers fell back on that tactic, although he'd never countenanced it at WE. Perhaps it was a test to see how comfortable he was rubbing shoulders with his (hopefully) future colleagues after hours. After all, if most officers stopped by Finnegan's when their shifts were over, they'd likely expect Bruce to not only join them, but to fit in. He gave a mental sigh. He'd endured similar situations with the League, also.

"We'll take my car," Chiarello said, interrupting his thoughts as he gestured toward a bluish-gray Chevy that needed a paintjob. "Hop in."

Bruce obeyed without comment.

"Suppose you came in a Ferrari or a Jag?"

"Town Car," Bruce returned shortly.

"Oh, excuse me," Chiarello said. "Finnegan's is for working stiffs. Park a Town Car nearby and, if you're lucky, you won't come back to find it's been keyed. Bet you've got a stereo system in there?"

_Police band radio, actually._ "Ummm..."

"Yeah, you don't want to drive it where we're going. The bar's fine; the neighborhood? Ehhh..." He put his key in the ignition. "Don't forget to buckle up. I'd hate to have to cite myself," he said, chuckling a little at his own joke.

Bruce resigned himself to the drive and to his new companion.

* * *

"Sharon Ryerson is..." Commissioner Sawyer caught herself. "Well... I don't anticipate that the restraining order will hold up, assuming that Mr. Wayne contests it." She frowned. "Which I would advise him to do, if he's still intent on going through the program after this evening."

Under the cowl, Dick raised his eyebrows. "Is something wrong?"

Sawyer shook her head. "I won't be able to answer that until I see his assessment scores. I've done everything I can for him," she said quietly. "But his acceptance to the Academy isn't a formality. I'm... aware of the position I put him in. If he means to blow the vetting process, it's very possible for him to fail."

"How about if he gives it his best shot?" Dick asked. "Is it a rubber stamp?"

"No, it's not." Sawyer moved away from the window and gestured to Dick to step inside. He followed her as she returned to her desk and sat down. "There are certain allowances we can—and do—make for special circumstances. Officers who left the force to pursue other career plans and subsequently return... ex-military personnel... When you spend years dealing with the crap that nobody else wants to deal with, it changes you. It's changed him; it must have." She took a deep breath. "What I need to know—what the backgrounder needs to know—is how deep those changes run. Whether he wants to carry one or not, if he passes the examinations, we're going to be handing him a loaded gun and sanctioning him to use it. We need to know that we can trust him not to _mis_ use it—and don't go telling me he'd never do it," she said, holding up a warning hand as Dick opened his mouth to protest. "Put any person under enough pressure and they'll snap and do something you'd never have believed possible. It takes about a second to pull a trigger and once it's done, there's no taking it back. And I think we both know that no matter how stable he seems right now, there are always going to be some... concerned parties... who'll hold Arkham against him."

Dick nodded reluctantly. "So..."

"So, one of my best backgrounders actually transferred into Internal Affairs last year. I've pulled him back out for this. Maury's seen it all. He has experience both in doing background investigations and in questioning seasoned officers. He'll get the whole picture." She smiled wearily. "Moreover, he won't compromise his principles, and anyone who knows him knows that. We all know the outcome I'm hoping for, but if he doesn't think your mentor qualifies, then regardless of my feelings in this matter, Mr. Wayne will not pass. If Maury passes him, then..." She sighed. "I wish I could truthfully tell you that it would shut up anyone claiming we fudged the results to get him on the force. Of course, there are always going to be rumors spread by people with grudges or too much time on their hands. Or both," she admitted. "But Maury's stamp of approval will go a long way toward stifling most of that talk."

Dick nodded. "And I guess, if I'd come to discuss this with you before Bruce's interview, you wouldn't be telling me nearly as much."

"You catch on fast," Sawyer said, amused. "Was there anything else?"

"Um... yeah, kind of. It does have to do with the restraining order. Bruce didn't mention it to me, and I don't want it to look like I've been poking around behind his back."

"Even though you are," Sawyer deadpanned.

"Well, not intentionally. Look. Can you find some... pretext for him to be down here or for at least one of your people to be at the manor on Saturday evening between six and nine?"

Sawyer frowned. "Why?"

Dick sighed. "If everything goes according to plan, you'll know the answer by nine-fifteen on Saturday night. If it doesn't, at least Bruce will have an alibi."

The commissioner's frown deepened. "Give me more to work with."

Dick sighed again. "Ryerson's being manipulated. Someone else is involved who wants that restraining order to stick. I'm handling it, but I can't share the details... yet."

Sawyer shook her head, still frowning as she considered. "Be careful," she said finally. "If she calls in a report of _anyone_ in a Bat-suit within 500 yards of her house, I'm going to have to have my people look into it. And since your relationship to Mr. Wayne is a matter of record—"

"It won't be me," Dick said smoothly. "Or anyone else in a cape." He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I can't give you all the facts, but some secrets aren't mine to share. I can tell you this much: probably tomorrow, you're going to get a request from the Keystone PD for one of their officers to come down to Gotham pursuant to an ongoing investigation. The officer in question is an old friend of Bruce's who knows us pretty well," he said, waiting for Sawyer's nod. "His credentials are legit, in case you were wondering, and he is working on a real case. He's also going to be helping out with this other issue."

"In other words," Sawyer said tartly, "you don't want me to ask too many questions if he expresses an interest in exploring Battergate."

"Something like that." He waited hopefully.

Sawyer sighed. "If I can count on his discretion, you can both count on mine. Be careful, Batman. I need the situation to be contained and resolved quickly, or I will involve my people."

"Understood," Dick said. "And I appreciate your trust."

"You've earned it," she remarked as the young vigilante strode back to the window. Another moment and he was out in the night, leaving Sawyer alone and shaking her head.

* * *

"What's your poison?" Chiarello asked. "The draft beer's pretty good, but they've got a couple of imports. Or if you wanted something a bit more hoity-toity—"

"Ginger ale," Bruce replied firmly.

"You sure? Seriously, this is off-duty time. You're not even driving."

Bruce shook his head. "On-duty or off," he said, "I'd prefer not to impair my judgment. Ginger ale. Please."

Chiarello shrugged. "Two ginger ales," he announced to the bartender. "Brought in some fresh meat to sample some of yours."

The bartender shrugged. "Two ginger ales," he repeated, slamming two glasses of ice down on the bar. He reached underneath and brought up two cans of Schweppes, set them down next to the glasses and popped the tops. "You know what you want to order yet?"

Chiarello turned to Bruce. "I think I know the menu. You can have burger and fries, burger and salad, burger and salad and fries... If you're vegetarian, I guess you can have salad and fries. If you're not, did I mention there are burgers?"

"Funny man," grumbled the bartender. He looked at Bruce. "We've got fish and chicken, too."

"Which are also burgers. Just less greasy," Chiarello retorted.

Bruce took a deep breath. "I'll have the chicken burger with fries and salad. Please," he added.

"Chicken combo," the bartender nodded. "And you're having your usual, I take it?" He glanced at Chiarello.

"Medium-rare, bacon double cheese, extra onions, two orders of fries and make sure you put the ketchup bottle down here—none of those..."

"...Damned little childproof foil packs, I know, I know already. Comin' right up." He turned to the griddle and slapped two patties down. Then he moved to the sink and began washing out glasses.

Chiarello looked at Bruce. "You know, you're not what I expected."

Bruce's eyebrow shot up. "Is that good or bad?"

"Haven't decided yet." He chuckled. "Bet you can't wait for today to be over."

Bruce turned the statement over in his head, looking for a catch. Finally, he nodded slowly. "You'd win that bet," he admitted.

"Heard about the deal you made with the commish. How's the kid?" Chiarello sounded concerned. "I saw how he looked on the news. It wasn't pretty."

"He's doing all right," Bruce said. "One of his teammates is a healer."

"That's lucky."

Bruce cleared his throat. "Listen, I know you're probably going to want to interview him. Is there any way that you can avoid mentioning my ... deal?"

"You didn't tell him," Chiarello inferred.

"Look. He was—is—someone I'd worked with extensively. In the space of one year, he lost his girlfriend, and his father. He also lost a good friend who was like a father to... to him and to me. After my arrest..." He closed his eyes. "I'm getting ahead of myself. After his father died, his stepmother had a breakdown and was in a facility in Bludhaven."

Chiarello's eyes opened wide. "And when Chemo hit..."

"As far as we know," Bruce said softly. "Her body was never found. Harrier... dealt with his pain by withdrawing. Something he probably learned from me," Bruce admitted. "He took my arrest hard."

"Ah," Chiarello replied. "So, the reason you don't want me to tell him—"

Bruce took a sip of ginger ale. "I don't blame him for leaving Gotham after my arrest. I want you to understand that. I was doing my utmost to push people away. He was the only one to take the hint. He sees it as an act of weakness. I don't—but he's convinced that I do, as well. Since my release, he's been trying ... we've both been trying to put the past in the past." He looked away. "Look, he already blames himself enough for what went on before. If he finds out that what happened to him the other night had any bearing on my decision to go through with this... this..." He let his voice trail off. "I don't want to subject him to that. Especially since there won't be any way I can convince him that it didn't."

"He doesn't listen to you?"

Was that an actual note of sympathy he was hearing? Bruce sighed. "He forms his opinions and sticks to them. It's easier to refute facts than opinions and..." He took another sip. "I don't usually articulate my feelings well. It's something I work on—have been working on—for close to two years, now." He set the glass back down gently on the counter. "I've told people who work with me that actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately, I've let actions speak _instead_ of words a few too many times." He shook his head. "Either he'll think that I did this to prove to him that I don't bear a grudge, or he'll blame himself for putting me in this position."

"You sure you don't want that beer?" Chiarello asked. "Or something stronger? I can drive you home after."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm fine."

"To answer your question," Chiarello said, "we keep all interviews confidential."

"I appreciate that," Bruce said, nodding slowly. The bartender slid two plates down before them. Bruce bit into the chicken burger and chewed thoughtfully. It wasn't bad. The bun had been toasted a bit darker than he preferred, the patty was slightly overcooked, but he'd had worse. He'd _made_ worse—a fact that always made him more forgiving of other people's cooking mishaps.

"Pity the baseball season hasn't started yet," Chiarello remarked. "I'm waiting to see the Knights and the Monarchs go head-to-head. Hoping Elton Curtis knocks those transplants back to the Big Apricot."

Bruce grunted. "Didn't Curtis get traded to the Monarchs last season?"

Chiarello blinked. He looked like he was about to argue, but then simply shrugged and picked up the ketchup bottle. "Eh... who's got time to keep up with sports anyway?" He held the bottle over his fries and gave it a thump.

A river of ketchup poured onto his plate. Chiarello growled.

Bruce kept his face carefully blank.

* * *

Dick was in the kitchen when Jim walked in, a plastic shopping bag tucked under his arm. "Bruce isn't back yet," he said. "I just..."

Jim smiled as he saw the takeout flyers on the counter. "Order for yourself if you're inclined," he said. "If he's not back yet, it means they're—"

"I know," Dick nodded, lowering his voice to an ominous whisper. "The Dinner."

Jim laughed. "It's not funny," he said. "Still..."

Dick sighed. "I know. But he's going to be gloomy enough when he comes in. Figured I might as well joke while I can." His eye fell on the shopping bag. "What's that?"

"A bit of information he shared with me over a year ago," Jim said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a carton of jamocha almond fudge ice cream. "And unlike fast food, this can keep for a while if he's not hungry when he gets in."

"Which he won't be," Dick nodded. "Not if Chiarello—and it is Chiarello; Babs confirmed it—is wining and dining him." He winced. "Or beering and burgering him, if my interview process is anything to go by. And even if we're wrong and the interview just ran overtime, Bruce doesn't eat under stress. If he's worked up, he'll be hitting the exercise equipment downstairs."

"True."

Dick sighed. Then he gave the flyers another look. "You like mushroom-pepperoni?"

Jim blinked. "Too spicy. You're ordering from Luigi's?"

Dick nodded. "That's the plan."

He smiled. "Mind you, I'm not vegetarian under normal circumstances. _However_ ," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "get the _vegissimo_ : red sauce, mozzarella, mushrooms, black olives, green pepper and fresh tomatoes."

Dick grinned. "Sold!"

* * *

After they were finished eating, Chiarello excused himself for a moment. Bruce was tempted to get up and leave, but he forced himself to remain. For all he knew, this wasn't over yet and Chiarello meant to drag him back to GCPD for another interview, or some other evaluation. Besides, he wasn't going to walk back to the parking garage to get his car and if he called for a taxi, it would be awkward if Chiarello returned before it got here. Normally, Bruce wouldn't have cared, but he didn't want to take the chance that cutting out early would somehow disqualify his application. Not that he wasn't rethinking the whole deal after today...

"Glad to see you looking better," a voice rumbled.

Bruce spun and found himself looking into a face that was more familiar than it should have been. It was the same with the voice. He'd heard it before, but he was having a hard time placing it now. He frowned.

"Kyle Robbins," the man supplied. "Sergeant. I was out at your place... about—"

Bruce's lips pulled into a smile, as he felt an uncharacteristic rush of warmth. "I remember," he said. "A year ago last November."

Robbins nodded. "I'm glad you got that business sorted out," he said. "I told myself back then that if I ever did run into you on the street, it'd be my privilege to buy you a drink."

Bruce shook his head, but a ghost of his smile still remained. "I think Detective Chiarello's taking care of that."

Robbins made a face. "Next time, then. After the evaluations." When Bruce looked up sharply, Robbins focused on a condensation ring on the counter. "Word gets around," he said. "So, I don't need to ask why you and Chiarello are sharing a meal in a cop bar."

Bruce's smile vanished entirely.

Robbins sighed. "Just keep reminding yourself of one thing. You'll only have to deal with those questions once."

Bruce was silent.

Robbins gestured toward the seat that Chiarello had vacated. "May I?"

At Bruce's nod, Robbins sat down. "Just on the initial application," he repeated. "Never again. D'you know why?"

Bruce grunted noncommittally.

"Because," Robbins said, "not one seasoned officer who's been out there on the streets, day after day, night after night, could pass it. Not with the shi-excuse me, my... um... lack of culture is showing. Not with the _excrement_ we have to wade through on a daily basis. And every backgrounder knows it." He smiled. "I figure... you were out in that mask and cape for what? Sixteen years?"

"Seventeen," Bruce corrected, feeling suddenly old.

"Seventeen," Robbins repeated. "I don't even want to know what you had to wade through. I figure you're probably a thirty-odd-year veteran already."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I'm not sure the people making the decision will see it that way."

"Mr. Wayne," Robbins said smiling, "somehow, I don't think the commissioner'd disregard your track record when it's the reason she's been trying to recruit you for the last few months."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I... About last November," he whispered. "I'd like to thank you for..." He took a deep breath. "Look, we both know you showed me more consideration than I had the right to expect under the circumstances."

Robbins snorted. "What? You mean my letting you walk out of the cemetery under your own steam? Come on. Every two-bit punk hoodlum knew that if the Batman gave his word to them it was money in the bank. Why _wouldn't_ the GCPD rate the same treatment?" He clapped one hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce tensed for one moment, and then relaxed. "And as long as you'd given your word to come peacefully," Robbins continued, "well, I didn't see the point in hauling you off in handcuffs."

Bruce nodded once more, afraid to trust his voice.

"Your dinner date's on his way back," Robbins said, withdrawing his hand. "I'd best head off to my table. But in all seriousness, I still want to take you out for a drink sometime."

"I'd like that," Bruce admitted with a small smile. "Thanks."

* * *

"Think he'll come back here?" Jim asked. "He knows we'll be waiting to hear, and if he doesn't want to talk—"

"Yeah, he's got the city mined with safehouses and hidey-holes," Dick nodded. "Including a few he never shared with the rest of us." He considered. "Even so, I think he'll be back here tonight. Whether he'll sit here and glower or..." He got up from the table. "Come to think of it, maybe I should check the chain on the heavy bag and make sure it's secure."

"That what you tackled after your interview?"

Dick shook his head. "No, I hit the uneven bars. Bruce takes things to extremes. Either he'll want to pound something or he'll find a mat and meditate." He sighed. "If he wants a spar, I'll give him one. We haven't done that in a long time."

"Another night," a voice said quietly from the doorway.

Jim started. "You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days," he snapped, but it was more for form's sake. "You know that, don't you?"

Dick's eyes fell on the remains of the pizza that he and Jim had shared earlier. "I can warm up the last two slices in the oven if you didn't eat yet," he said. "And there's ice cream in the freezer."

Bruce looked from Dick to Jim. "I'm not quite that fragile," he said mildly. "But thanks for waiting."

"Are you...?" Jim didn't finish the sentence.

Bruce nodded wearily. "You didn't exaggerate about the questions," he said. "And," he held up a warning hand, "don't ask me how it went. I'm not sure I can answer that. Where's Selina?"

"She's putting Helena to bed," Dick said. "Or she's upstairs in the den." He stood up. "Well, if everything's okay, I'm going to head home."

"What about patrol?" Bruce asked. "I thought last night was your night off."

Dick made a face. "It was. I was out for a bit earlier, but things were pretty quiet." He smiled. "If my hunch is right—and no, I didn't see them—well, you know the rest of the interviews start tomorrow. Babs has been arranging accommodations for the folks who aren't local and needed to arrive today and stay overnight. I know for a fact that she's been splitting everyone up in different hotels. I'm guessing that there might have been a few extra hands on deck tonight."

Bruce winced. "I should have anticipated something like that, I suppose. Mind you," he forced a lighter note into his voice, "I know you've been working too hard, even with your two-nights-on, one-night-off schedule. Have a good evening."

Dick frowned. "Not that I'm complaining, but you're in a better mood than I thought you'd be. Surprisingly so. Guess it wasn't as—"

"No, it was as bad as we thought. Worse," Bruce admitted. "But I... ran into an old friend afterwards. We caught up." He yawned. "It's been an exhausting day."

Jim sighed. "Come on, Dick. That's a hint if ever I heard one. Good night, Bruce."

As the front door closed behind the two men, Bruce smiled. Despite the interrogation Chiarello had put him through earlier, it actually _was_ a good night.

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews._

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewee: Black Canary_

MC: Do you have any objection to our conversation being recorded?

BC: None whatsoever.

MC: Just so you know, I will be taking notes throughout this interview. These are for my reference alone and shouldn't be a cause for concern.

BC: I understand.

MC: Will you state your name, please?

BC: Dinah Laurel Lance. Black Canary.

MC: Do you have a preference?

BC: Not really. Whichever's easier.

MC: All right, Ms. Lance. We've got a bit of ground to cover, so let's just get started, shall we? How long have you known Bruce Wayne?

BC: Oh... I'd say it's probably about sixteen years now. Maybe seventeen.

MC: Would you say you know him well?

BC: Pretty well, yes. We've worked closely together in the past.

MC: How does he relate to you?

BC: [ _12-second pause_ ] Professionally.

MC: Is there anything going on between the two of you?

BC: You mean on a personal level? No.

MC: How about in the past?

BC: No.

MC: If I were to ask him the same question, how do you think he'd respond?

BC: Well... if he's being honest, the same way.

MC: If he's being honest?

BC: I'm sure you know that Mr. Wayne adopted a... a public persona to deflect suspicion away from some of his activities. The Bruce Wayne described in the society pages is very much a womanizer. I think that, if you were to ask him the question while he was playing that character, he'd very likely give you a helpless laugh and say something like 'I live in hope.' The truth, however, is that we're colleagues. Friends. Nothing more.

MC: So you never dated.

BC: I've accompanied him to a few social gatherings, but those were more along the lines of undercover work. I was backup. It was strictly business.

MC: I see. Have you ever known Mr. Wayne to get angry?

_Interviewee: Batgirl_

BG: Yes.

MC: How often?

BG: Sometimes.

MC: I'm sorry. Is English not your first language?

BG: First... spoken. [15-second pause] Long story.

MC: I'd like to hear it.

BG: Okay. Until five years ago I... People say, actions louder than words. I had actions. Not... words. No... word-language. Only... body. I read... people better than... books.

MC: What are you reading about me right now?

BG: Surprise. Suspicion. Skeptical—Not lying! You... you're trying to understand. Pity. Don't. I was... okay. [10-second pause] You don't believe.

MC: How often does Mr. Wayne get angry?

BG: Sometimes.

MC: Once a day? Once a week?

BG: Depends.

MC: Have you ever seen him lose his temper?

BG: No.

MC: Never?

BG: Never. He gets... angry. But controls.

MC: When was the last time you saw Mr. Wayne get angry?

BG: Really angry?

MC: Yes.

BG: On pass from Arkham. He... he wanted to leave. Wanted hearing. Lawyer said, 'not yet.'

MC: And what did he do?

BG: Hung up phone. Punched wall.

MC: He was talking with his lawyer on the phone?

BG: Yes.

MC: So when he punched the wall, how hard did he punch?

BG: Not hard.

MC: Was the wall damaged?

BG: No.

MC: Did he break anything? Did he hurt himself?

BG: No. No.

MC: Did he scare you?

BG: No.

MC: When was this?

BG: March.

MC: Last March?

BG: Yes.

MC: Have you ever seen him get angry for any other reasons?

_Interviewee: Superman_

S: I'm sure you're aware that he lost his adopted son in Qurac. Joker was responsible. There was nothing provable, but he had a deathbed confession from another one of the victims.

MC: Did you hear the confession?

S: No.

MC: But you believed him?

S: Well, I do have the advantage of being able to detect changes in heart rate, breathing, and body temperature. He was angry, agitated, even. But he wasn't lying.

MC: I see. So you're a living polygraph?

S: In a manner of speaking.

MC: Could Mr. Wayne fool you?

S: I believe he probably could—if he had a chance to prepare, and if he knew that I was going to be observing him.

MC: Had he had a chance to prepare then?

S: No. Bruce has always kept a very tight rein on his emotions. He may _act_ out of control at times—mostly when he's trying to intimidate people—but it's rare for him to actually _be_ out of control. When Jason died, he was falling apart.

MC: How old was Jason?

S: Fifteen.

MC: Was Jason... Robin?

S: Not at that time. His performance had become erratic. Bruce had taken him off active duty.

MC: Did you observe this or is it what he told you?

S: He told me.

MC: What was Jason doing in Qurac?

S: He'd been living on the streets when Bruce found him. Some months after the adoption, he discovered that his mother was working in a refugee camp.

MC: In Qurac.

S: Yes.

MC: And after Joker killed him, what did Mr. Wayne do?

S: He dealt with the bureaucracy and returned to the States—at which point, he began hunting for the Joker.

MC: Did he find him?

S: Yes. It wasn't hard. Joker had been named the Bialyan ambassador to the UN. He'd actually sent Batman a message telling him to meet him in New York. The State Department asked me to ensure his safety.

MC: Joker's safety?

S: That's right.

MC: What did you do?

S: I confronted Batman. I... had to break the news to him about the Bialyans' newest diplomat.

MC: What did he do?

S: He hit me.

MC: He hit you?

S: Let's keep in mind that I'm invulnerable for a moment, Detective. Let's also keep in mind that he'd just buried his son not twenty-four hours earlier, and that I'd come to tell him that the person who killed him had full diplomatic immunity and was thus untouchable.

MC: What happened after he hit you?

S: He calmed down. We talked. He suspected that the Bialyans would only have employed Joker if they meant for him to carry out a wide-scale assassination. That suspicion turned out to be correct: the target was the UN General Assembly. We worked together and thwarted the attempt.

MC: What happened to the Joker?

S: He escaped.

MC: Do you know whether Mr. Wayne ever confronted Joker again?

S: At least a dozen times. Possibly more.

MC: In your opinion, what would Mr. Wayne do if he was locked in a room with the Joker and he knew that there were no witnesses and no cameras?

S: In my opinion, he would incapacitate Joker as quickly as possible—likely with a blackout hold or a knockout spray. Two to ten minutes later, depending on the kind of lock used, he would be out of the room. If he was within two blocks of a precinct, he'd be carrying Joker. If he wasn't, he'd leave an anonymous tip for your people and you'd likely find Joker either still locked in that room or tied to nearby streetlamp, depending on whether Bruce had to remove the door to get out...

* * *

Alex steepled his fingers and listened without interruption until Bruce was finished. Then he let out a low whistle. "It sounds like you've had more excitement in the last couple of weeks than you've have in the last six months," he said.

Bruce looked up sharply.

"Have you been keeping that journal?"

"Yes."

"Good. How _are_ you handling the vetting?"

Bruce thought for a moment. "It wasn't a pleasant way to spend yesterday, if that's what you're asking."

Alex shook his head. "I don't think anyone enjoys the process," he said. "But this is a situation where you aren't calling the shots, correct?"

"Yes," Bruce said slowly. "But also no. When I say that I have no choice in the matter, that's not precisely true, is it? I can choose to walk away from the table at any time. I can choose to not put myself through any of this—provided I also choose to mothball the costume or go back to who I was before."

Alex nodded, waiting.

"My options are limited," Bruce continued. "But they are options, nonetheless. I'm..." he smiled. "I'm _not_ being forced into this, any more than I was forced to sleep on a filthy floor in a bug-infested hut in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. But every option has a cost."

"Is this option worth it?"

Bruce hesitated. "I don't know. But maybe," he closed his eyes, "maybe, for once, it's better that way."

Alex frowned, puzzlement plain on his face. "I'm not sure I'm following."

Bruce shook his head. "If I knew for sure that the benefit outweighed the cost," he admitted, "I might try to do what was necessary to influence that outcome. As much as everyone has been stressing to me that I need to be honest with my answers, the reality is that my answers are probably not ideally what the assessors want to hear."

"It sounds to me like they want to hear the truth."

Bruce shook his head. "They don't want me to lie. But the truth may well disqualify me." He looked down. "I did something that, in retrospect, was probably... unwise," he admitted. "After I had filled out the questionnaire and submitted it online, I... at the time of my arrest, one of my colleagues took note of the list of charges that the DA's office prepared to file against me. I accessed that file and read the data. The volume of charges was," he swallowed, "extensive."

"Were the charges accurate?"

Bruce sighed heavily. "Yes. I still feel that my actions in those cases were justifiable, but..."

"But you're concerned that a court may not have seen it that way."

Bruce nodded.

Alex leaned forward. "Then, I suppose it's a good thing that you were never charged." He smiled. "I don't know how the interviewer is going to view it. It seems to me that, if they know about your past activities, they must also know that you didn't always follow the rules. How much leeway they'll give you isn't something that I can predict, but it's reasonable to believe that they would cut you _some_ slack."

Bruce nodded again. "So I've been told. Repeatedly. But I don't _know_." He sighed. "So, yes. That much _is_ out of my control."

"It must be frustrating," Alex remarked. "Everything you normally use to manipulate a situation—money, prestige, subterfuge—here, they'd all work against you. And the truth..."

"...may not achieve the desired result, either," Bruce completed the thought.

"And, from what you told me, you're still not entirely sure what that 'desired result' is."

Bruce shook his head. "No."

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews._

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewee: Arsenal_

A: So, did you make Bruce squirm? Because if you got it on video, I would pay good money to watch that.

MC: Would you be seated, please, Mr. Arsenal?

A: Just Arsenal, Smokey. Or do you prefer Mr. Policeman, like in the Brad Paisley song?

MC: Detective's fine.

A: [Interviewee hums several bars of a country song]. Oh, sorry. You wanted to ask me about Bruce, right?

MC: If you don't mind.

A: Hey, if I minded I wouldn't be here. Fire away! OH GAWD, DON'T SHOOT! Heh-heh. Sorry. Just always wanted to say that. You understand.

MC: Let's get down to business. How long have you known Mr. Wayne?

A: Well, I met him about fifteen years ago, but we haven't really worked together much. His son and I are pretty tight, though.

MC: So you know him through his son.

A: Yeah, we had this little club. You've probably heard of it... Teen Titans? That ring any bells for you? So the old guard would pop in every so often with a 'hey-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood-and-thought-I'd-drop-by-to-see-if-you-kids-are-throwing-a-wild-block-party-oops-did-I-just-say-that-out-loud?' At least Bruce didn't pretend. He didn't trust us, and we knew where we stood.

MC: Why didn't he trust you?

A: Um... maybe because we were a bunch of adolescents on our own in New York City? Sure, we were good at solving crimes, but we were also teenagers spending a lot of time with no supervision. C'mon, Maury, m'man: we just met and you've probably pegged my personality already, amirite? This is me as a responsible adult. You want to guess what I was like fifteen years ago?

MC: Did you resent Mr. Wayne checking up on you?

A: Hell, I resented Wonder Woman checking up on us, and she's HOT. Yeah, I resented it. I was used to being on my own.

MC: I thought you had a mentor.

A: I had a pal. Nightwing—Robin in those days—had a mentor. And yes, I resented that. Don't tell him I said so.

MC: Did you observe Mr. Wayne and Robin together?

A: _Batman_ , Maury. Batman. Mr. Wayne was a suit who fell asleep in board meetings and made the society pages every week with a different floozy. Batman was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

MC: Did Batman and Robin get along?

A: Hey, Dynamic Duo, right? Yes, they got along.

MC: Did you ever see them fight?

A: Argue, sure.

MC: Heatedly?

A: Yeah, I guess.

MC: What about?

A: Usually, about his taste in friends. Namely me, in case you haven't caught on.

MC: So, Batman didn't approve of you.

A: I think it's more that he didn't approve of Green Arrow, and I was GA's partner, so a bit of that disapproval rubbed off on me. Ah, the hell with it. Look, Batman never gave Robin a second to slack off. Everything was training, everything was regimen, and Robin loved it. He said he'd been training since he could walk, and since the stuff we did was kinda dangerous, he couldn't slack off. And no, thinking back now, I don't think that Batman was a slave-driver. I thought it back then...

MC: What changed?

A: You gotta understand, GA wasn't that driven. He didn't have time to train me much. I think he took me on because I already knew my way around a bow and arrows and he wanted a kid partner. Once he saw that I could handle myself in the field, he pretty much let me do what I wanted. So when I saw Batman riding that kid's back, yeah, I thought it wasn't fair. Except I didn't realize that I wasn't wishing Batman would let up. I was wishing GA would crack down.

MC: Oh?

A: See, Batman didn't show up much. And when he did, he always noticed what you did wrong before he told you what you did right. But Robin knew—we all knew—that he was interested. He cared. Maybe he couldn't come out and say he was worried when it looked like we'd got ourselves killed or trapped in outer space or something. He was never "touchy-feely." But when we showed up safe and sound and he read us the riot act, I know I hated it, but I also know he cared.

MC: Did you ever see him lose his temper?

A: Define lose.

MC: Give way to uncontrollable rage.

A: You know he's never killed anyone, right? Cuz that's your answer right there.

MC: Ever see him raise his voice?

A: Sure. Why, does yelling make someone a bad cop?

MC: Not necessarily.

A: Glad we got that sorted out.

MC: Ever known him to use illegal drugs?

A: No, that would be me. Don't worry. I cleaned up my act over a decade ago. Now, the one time I experimented with hallucinogens, I thought I saw him 50-feet tall and giving me ye olde glower-o-doom. That's probably why I only tried that experiment once. Ever seen 'Scared Straight'?

MC: I'm familiar with it. Did Mr. Wayne know you were taking drugs?

A: I never told him, but I guess you know all about grapevines. Thing is, when I was ready for active duty again, he was the first one who gave me a fair deal. Yeah, he said he'd be keeping an eye on me, and he did—but he kept an eye on everyone. He didn't ransack my room when I wasn't there or demand random drug tests. And yeah, that's probably because he knew what signs to watch for if I did relapse. But once I got clean, he accepted me back before GA did.

MC: Did you ever see Robin with bruises or broken bones?

A: You do know that the Teen Titans were a team of vigilantes, right? I mean, when we encountered Deathstroke or Brother Blood, are you under the impression that we used to try to resolve our differences with a friendly game of rock-paper-scissors? Hell, yeah, he had broken bones and bruises. So did most of us at one time or another. What's this got to do with Batman again?

MC: Did you ever have reason to suspect that Robin's injuries had been inflicted by Batman?

_Interviewee: Wonder Woman_

WW: Great Hera, no!

MC: Not even unintentionally?

WW: To the best of my knowledge, no.

MC: Under what circumstances have you known Mr. Wayne to get angry?

WW: Bruce is a strategist—among the best I've ever met. He tries to plan for every contingency. If his plans fail, if someone is hurt or killed, he blames himself. Even when there was no reasonable way that he could have predicted the outcome.

MC: Anything else?

WW: He sets his expectations high, both for himself and for those who work with him. I believe that this is one of the main reasons he prefers to work alone. When he involves others, they are invariably either people whom he has trained himself, or people whom he has observed long enough to be convinced of their abilities. He can be harsh when mistakes occur, whether they stem carelessness or from more... philosophical differences.

MC: Philosophical?

WW: It's a matter of record that I killed one man to save another. You're aware of the power of my lasso.

MC: Yes.

WW: Under its influence, Maxwell Lord told me that the only way to stop him from controlling Superman was to kill him. I did. A regretful necessity.

MC: I've read the reports.

WW: Bruce disagreed with my actions.

MC: He became angry, you mean.

WW: There _was_ anger, yes. But also sorrow. We... were closer once.

MC: Were you lovers?

WW: No. We'd discussed the possibility, but decided against it. We remained friends. Companions.

MC: And after you killed Lord?

WW: I went to him to explain myself. Under Lord's control, Superman had attacked him. No. Superman had nearly killed him. Lord's mental manipulations had Superman convinced that Bruce was Darkseid. Laboring under that mistake, Superman attacked at full force. Bruce's injuries were extensive. I'd thought... I'd hoped that Bruce would understand my actions. Instead he told me to leave. He couldn't look at me.

MC: But would you consider that to be anger? Or pain?

WW: How often, Detective, can you say that you're feeling only one emotion, completely untainted by any other? He was angry. He felt that I had betrayed his trust. I went to him to explain my actions and, thinking back, I was looking for reassurance that our friendship was intact. He withheld that.

MC: Have you spoken with him since then?

WW: No.

MC: You know that if Mr. Wayne's application is approved, he'll be obliged to carry a gun, and it may happen that he'll have to use it. In your opinion, would he be capable?

_Interviewee: Hawkman_

HM: There's only one way to find out, but I can say this with conviction: if he does take a life, for any reason, you won't need to ask for his badge and gun pending an investigation. He'll approach you to surrender them. He is a warrior—an honorable one. Whatever actions he may undertake in the future, he will own them and face their consequences.

MC: If you heard that he was carrying a gun, would that concern you?

HM: If the circumstances were other than his becoming a peace officer, yes. Because it would mean that his moral code had altered. That would be... highly uncharacteristic, causing me to suspect that other forces were in play.

MC: Other forces?

HM: Manipulation, mind control. We've encountered beings capable of both. We've seen illusionists and shapeshifters. When a colleague begins to behave in a manner inconsistent with his character, it's not something to take at face value.

MC: Do you consider him a friend?

HM: He's a comrade-in-arms. We've had our differences yes, but I respect him.

MC: What... differences?

HM: There's strength in unity. He walked away from the League. It created a crack in the team, which deepened until the League disbanded.

MC: Why did he walk away?

HM: Frankly, he never confided in me.

MC: But you aren't convinced he had a good reason.

HM: If he never provided a reason, how could I determine whether it was good or bad?

MC: Did you ask him to clarify?

HM: No. His reasons for leaving didn't interest me. Only that he was leaving.

MC: Would you work with him again, if he rejoined the League?

HM: Of course.

MC: Of course?

HM: He's a strategist and a warrior. I'd have to be a fool to reject him based on my personal feelings...

* * *

"It's all set," Barry said. "I just got the paperwork approved an hour ago."

Dick smiled. "Great. So, when do you come in?"

"Well, the Flash's interview is set for tomorrow afternoon, so I'll probably run in for that and stay."

Dick started to smile when he remembered something. "Barry... could you maybe make it in tonight? You really need to be on time for this."

The older man blinked. "How long do you think it takes me to get to Gotham from Keystone?"

"Barry," Dick sighed, "please, don't make me access the JLA meeting minutes and verify how many times you showed up late. Normally, I wouldn't care, but this is important."

"I know." His eyes darted away from the monitor for a moment. "Hang on. I just got an email from GCPD." He looked up again a moment later. "Dick? Did you mention anything about me to the commissioner? Or anyone else with the Gotham City police?"

"Just that you're an old friend of Bruce's and mine. Sawyer knows about the restraining order. I wanted to let her know I'm handling it, and I figured she'd be more accommodating if I let her know some... less-classified details about the situation. I didn't blow your identity or anything. Why?"

Barry relaxed. "That explains it. Telling her that Bruce and I go way back. The email is from Maury Chiarello, inviting me to an interview tomorrow evening, regarding Bruce's application. As in, me—Barry." His expression grew serious. "Normally, that wouldn't be an issue. Thing is, he's asking to see the Flash at six tomorrow. He's asking to see Barry Allen at seven. That could be a little risky."

Dick nodded. "Bring Wally in, then?"

"That was my thought, yes. He can take the first interview. We'll leave Keystone together; I'll bring a magazine or something and wait around."

Dick grinned. "Sounds like a plan. And," he looked down, "sorry about that. I should've foreseen."

"No harm done. We were debating which of us was going to field the interview anyway. How _is_ Bruce, by the way? I'm going to pop by and see him later, but is there anything I need to know?"

Dick shook his head. "Well, there is one thing."

"Oh?"

The smile was back. "Yeah, he still hates surprises. So call him first."

"I will. Wait. If he still hates surprises... aren't we keeping him in the dark about how we're handling this whole False Face thing?"

Dick sighed. "He hates people fighting his battles even more. I'll apologize later. For now..."

"Understood. See you on Saturday."

* * *

Cass was taking a practice GED test when Tim stopped by. She looked up. "My night off," she said. "Studying."

Tim smiled. "Yeah, I know. I thought if you wanted to take a break, maybe we could get a spar in before I start patrol."

Cass considered. "Let me finish science section," she said. "Then break before civics."

"Sounds good," Tim nodded. "I usually work out with Bruce, but he cancelled today. He said he had a lot to take care of."

Cass shrugged. "No problem. Glad to... fill in."

"They interviewed you already, right?" Tim asked after a moment.

She looked away from the test and fought back her irritation. "Yes. Please... talk soon? Can't concentrate."

"Sorry."

Cass nodded curtly and returned to the test. Nearly twenty minutes later, she got up and smiled at him. "Okay."

They moved to the mat.

"So how did the interview go?" Tim asked, as he straightened from the initial bow.

Cass shrugged and lunged forward, deliberately leaving Tim an opening. "Okay." She rolled with the kick, surged back and continued. "Asked about Bruce's... temper mostly. Told truth."

Tim overextended. She grabbed his arm, twisted, and tossed him over her shoulder to the mat.

After that, they scuffled in silence. Tim needed his focus—and his breath—for the spar, and Cass had never been fond of 'infield chatter'. Finally, after what seemed an eternity—but was really only a moment or two later—Cass pinned him. "Again?" She asked.

"Gimme a minute," Tim muttered. "Dang. I thought I was better than this. Maybe I'm just worried," he admitted. "So far, they want to talk to Harrier and Robin. Pretty sure that when they start interviewing non-capes, they'll want Tim."

"Yes," Cass said. "Problem. Interviews recorded. Can you... fake three voices?"

Tim frowned. "Two, maybe. But if they don't just use a recorder, if they actually run it through an analyser, it could get messy." He grimaced. "One more thing to worry about." He paused for a beat. "On top of my deteriorating combat skills, and Bruce shutting me out again. I know the interview process is tough, but I didn't spill state secrets when the BPD interviewed me for Dick, and I won't now."

Cass sighed. "Tim," she said, "you aren't only interview. Think Bruce probably more worried about others. And... you fight well. But hurt not long ago. She frowned. "Patrol tonight. You're... okay?"

Tim winced. "Yeah, I should be."

"Could sit out."

"Nah, I owe it to Bruce," Tim said. "Especially now."

Cass sighed. "Tim... Bruce saved you because he's... Bruce. He... he doesn't want you to think you... owe. Wants you... okay." She frowned. There was something wrong about his body language. Something that made her think of deception, but yet, his words rang true. "What?" She asked finally.

"Why the hell did he have to strike a bargain with Sawyer?" he demanded.

Cass blinked. "You're worth it," she said. "Surprised he told you that part."

Tim shook his head bitterly. "He didn't. But you just did."


	7. 6. Bitter Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the interviews continue, Chiarello discovers a few things that neither he, nor the JLA would have wanted known...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Xenith, and PJ for the beta. Thanks to Debbie and PJ for help with the Outsiders and GL, this time out.
> 
> "That's My Story" written by Lee Roy Parnell and Tony Haselden. Recorded by Colin Raye on his Extremes album (Epic, 1994).

_You know time comes when a wise man knows the best thing_  
That he can do is just look [him] up in the eye  
And beg for mercy and face the bitter truth

— _Lee Roy Parnell, Tony Haselden, "That's My Story"_

_  
_

**Chapter 6—Bitter Truths**

Maury Chiarello checked over his interview notes one more time. He hadn't been lying earlier. Wayne was definitely not what he'd been expecting...

_He'd been a young officer working in the Property Crimes unit when Batman had first appeared on the scene. While he'd never met the vigilante face to face, he hadn't missed the sharp upswing in the number of injuries inflicted on suspected perpetrators. At first, he'd assumed that some of the more volatile among his police brethren—and Gotham had had more than its fair share of those back in the day—had been a bit overeager to secure a confession and had concocted some shadowy "Batman" to cover themselves. That idea had lasted until the day Maury had found himself walking past Commissioner Loeb's office, only to see a thin cloud of vapor rising from a crack under the closed door._

_Concerned, Maury had pulled the door open to find the room filled with tear gas. Loeb had been coughing as a menacing voice had snarled, "Stop trying to pin the Tolliver fiasco on Gordon. Or the next time I pay you a visit, I'll be a lot less... restrained."_

_By then, Maury had been struggling to breathe. Over his own wheezing, though, he'd heard the commissioner gasp, "Batman... Don't!" Then he'd ducked out of the room and run for reinforcements—but, by the time they'd arrived, the gas had mostly dissipated and the Batman was gone._

_Over the next few months, Maury had stopped doubting the officers who spoke of the Batman. Clearly, the vigilante was violent, temperamental, and had no regard for authority. He attacked without hesitation, assaulted without remorse, and escaped without consequence. At least, that had been Maury's impression when he'd left Gotham to join the FBI, shortly before Loeb had been forced to step down._

In the years that followed, he'd all but forgotten about the Batman, until his return to Gotham. On the surface, little had changed. The Batman had been a wanted man when Maury had left Gotham. He'd been an Arkham inmate when Maury had returned. The story was no longer news by that time, but, little by little, Maury thought that he'd picked up the gist of it: over time, the Batman had become more reckless, less of a nuisance and more of a menace, and now, he was safely locked away. He'd heard that there was a new Batman now, but Maury hadn't had any dealings with him.

When Sawyer had yanked him away from Internal Affairs to handle Wayne's vetting, Maury had been sure that April Fool's Day had come early this year. Sawyer couldn't have seriously been contemplating bringing a man like that on board.

Then he'd met him. Almost immediately, all of his preconceptions had gone flying out the window. Bruce Wayne was intelligent, calm—at least until Maury had asked a few pointed questions, but even then, Wayne had held his temper far better than most of the candidates he'd vetted. Wayne had a phenomenal memory. He was methodical. He'd also been extremely forthcoming with most of his answers—even when some of them were clearly painful topics to discuss.

Maury was also struck by the way the other Capes spoke of him. Even Hawkman—and it was evident to Maury that there was little love lost between those two—obviously respected him.

That was another thing. When you only saw the costumed crowd from afar—on the news or in photographs—it was easy to look up to them. They were an inspiration; a glimpse of what most people only dreamed they could aspire to. In person, however, they were a mixed bag.

He was amazed at how normal Superman had seemed. For all his powers and all his abilities, there hadn't been a trace of ego. Black Canary had been the same. They seemed like normal people that you might run into waiting in line at an ATM or filling up with gas at a service station.

Batgirl intrigued him. There had been more questions that he'd been planning to ask her—after all, she'd probably logged more hours working with Batman than most of the others. He'd had a hard time getting around the language barrier. Still, despite her stilted speech, he'd been able to get a fairly clear idea of her opinions.

He worried a bit about what Wonder Woman had told him. If Wayne had issues with using deadly force—and sometimes officers did have to use deadly force—how well was he going to integrate into the department? Mind you, his friendship with Gordon was practically a department legend, notwithstanding the former commissioner's use of guns.

As for Arsenal and Hawkman... He was half-wondering whether Arsenal had been high at the interview, though he suspected that the young vigilante might simply have issues with authority figures. And yet, for all his obnoxiousness, his barbed remarks, and his challenges, he'd also displayed a clear respect and appreciation for the Batman. And if Wayne could command that sort of attitude from someone like Arsenal...

His expression soured as he thought about Hawkman. He reminded him too much of some of the officers he'd had to question in IA investigations. The Thanagarian was hiding something—Maury knew it. The only question was whether it was something relevant to Wayne's assessment, or whether it was just something that he didn't want to share with an outsider.

Maury frowned. He'd thought that he'd have Wayne disqualified in a heartbeat—but after the initial interview and the first day of background checks, he was no longer so sure.

There was one question that kept nagging at him, however. If everyone had such respect for him, then why had Batman left?

He sighed. He had three more interviews tonight and ten tomorrow. Hopefully, he'd get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

* * *

"Jim said he thought he saw you come in here," Selina said, gliding into the den. "He seemed to think you were headed downstairs."

Bruce looked up for a moment, but then lowered his head again."I was debating it," he admitted. "I probably will in a moment or two. I'm..." He sighed. "I was debating whether to steel myself for another drill with the berretta or accept that, after yesterday, there probably isn't much point in putting myself through that particular challenge." He sighed. "Then I had a call from Dr. Cinar about my psychiatric assessment." He took another breath. "This Sunday. Nine AM."

Selina nodded sympathetically. "The Las Vegas PD had a sample PHQ available online. I was looking at it yesterday, after you left." She shook her head. "I don't think I could have sat still for some of those questions for more than a couple of minutes before I stormed out, swearing a blue streak."

That got a fleeting smile out of him. "Don't think I wasn't tempted."

She sat down on the same sofa that he was occupying, far enough away to allow him his personal space, but near enough that they could talk without it seeming awkward. "So, what's the psych exam supposed to be like?"

Bruce shook his head. "Who knows? More questions, I suppose—although I'm not certain what else there is that they have to ask. I'll find out Sunday, I guess." Almost imperceptibly, Bruce shifted position and moved slightly closer to her. "The other interviews started this morning," Bruce said.

"And?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "Chiarello hasn't called me yet, so there's a chance he hasn't decided against me—I'm not sure whether the psych exam is dependent on my passing his part of the process, or if it's independent. And an old friend from Central City phoned earlier to... catch up. Apparently, he's been called in on my behalf."

Selina tilted head. "Any reason to worry?"

"About Barry?" Bruce shook his head. "I don't think so. But we'll find out tomorrow evening. I've asked him to stop by after supper."

"Oh?" She asked archly. "Should I make myself scarce, then?"

Bruce blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it'll help to avoid those uncomfortable questions about how we met." She sighed. "Bruce, most of your 'old friends' seem to be in the same line of work." She shook her head. "At least the ones who don't turn out to be with the competition," she muttered.

Bruce frowned. "If memory serves, we met at a Wayne Foundation gala, not long after my return to Gotham," he said slowly. "I'll admit we didn't strike up much of a conversation until we'd both slipped into something more..."

"Before you finish that sentence," Selina interrupted, "you should know. Vera Wang silk is more comfortable than purple leather. Especially in August."

"I was going to say 'casual,'" Bruce said. "All right. Barry is in the same—as you put it—line of work that I am. And will be. Hopefully." His lips twitched. "Either way, in fact. He's a police scientist in civilian life. That being said, I think I'm comfortable enough fielding the sort of questions you think I can expect by introducing you." He frowned. "That is... if _you're_ comfortable."

Selina smiled and leaned against his shoulder. "Right now," she said, "I am _very_ comfortable..."

* * *

_Interviewee: Black Lightning_

MC: How long have you known Bruce Wayne?

BL: We first met about nine or ten years ago. I'd been going through a rough spot. For some reason, I'd lost my meta abilities. Bruce helped me figure out the problem.

MC: And the friendship persisted?

BL: I'm not entirely sure that 'friendship' is the right word. We work well together. We respect one another. But we never really 'hang out,' outside of business.

MC: So you see eye-to-eye on a lot of things.

BL: Actually, no. It's funny. For a man who operates outside the law, for the most part—operated, I should say—he's got some pretty high ethical standards. [Pause]

MC: Can you elaborate?

BL: I'm trying. Okay. I'm presuming that if you decided to track me down, you probably put my name into your systems and if you didn't know it before, you found out pretty quickly that I served as President Luthor's Secretary of Education.

MC: That's a matter of record.

BL: I accepted that position knowing that Luthor was corrupt, but believing that I could work better to bring him down from within. Batman wouldn't have made that compromise.

MC: But he has worked undercover.

BL: He's impersonated known associates of crime-lords, but while doing so, he hasn't put himself in a position where he's had to turn a blind eye to murder. In my experience, invariably, he's broken cover rather than let that happen. Politics may not be as violent, but they can be just as bloody. I made choices I'm not proud of. I live with them. Not that this is about me.

MC: You know, there's something bothering me. Everyone I've spoken to today has incredible respect for him. Going by what you're all saying, he should be leading the Justice League—maybe even be the public face of it. And yet, when you served under him, it was during a period when he'd quit the League, and that wasn't the only time he'd done so.

BL: Remember what I just said about politics? The Justice League is one of the best... deterrent forces this planet could ever have, and I'm not just saying that. Knowing they're out there makes a lot of people feel safe and secure. It also makes a lot of people nervous.

MC: Criminals, you mean.

BL: Yeah, them too. I was thinking more of people in power. As in, I can't help thinking that Luthor didn't give me that post entirely because of my education credentials. I have them, yes. But for a number of years before he ran for president, Luthor had a particular vendetta against Superman. And the reason for that was—to put it simply—because Luthor wasn't as clean as the image he projected . Now, he knew that Superman knew the truth, but he also knew that Superman didn't have evidence to support it, and that he would only go so far without it. Luthor was already a powerful man. Becoming president only increased that. And powerful men don't like losing their power—and yes, that's the voice of personal experience coming into play, there. The day Luthor took the Oath of Office, Superman graduated from being a thorn in his side to a threat to the free world—or at least to Luthor's version of it. So he decided to fight fire with fire.

MC: By hiring you.

BL: I don't advertise my civilian identity, but I don't take huge pains to hide it either. Luthor probably ran the same kind of background check on me that you're running on Bruce. I have to say, I wouldn't be shocked to hear that they had uncovered my... ah... extra-curricular activities at that time.

MC: Getting back to Mr. Wayne's issues with the Justice League?

BL: Sorry. Okay. So, the League knows that, with the kind of talents they wield, they need to reassure folks that they aren't out to wrest power away from heads of government—that they'll obey the laws of the land. Basically, they'll help with humanitarian aid and fight off interplanetary threats, but they won't interfere in national politics. If they ever did, that could be seen as trying to seize power for themselves.

MC: Or pushing an agenda.

BL: You got it. So. When Baron Bedlam staged a coup and took over the throne of Markovia, the League felt that it couldn't intervene. Batman, however, felt that he couldn't stand aside. So he stepped down from the League and recruited a new team.

MC: To go where the League wouldn't.

BL: Yes.

MC: How did the League react?

BL: Just so you know, the League isn't some homogenous monolith. And I'm afraid I don't have an answer to your question, seeing as how I wasn't with the League. However, whatever they might have thought of his actions at the time, they also recognized that he had a point. Once the Outsiders became more established, the League recognized that we could go in and do the dirty work that they couldn't.

MC: And they had no problem with that?

_Interviewee: Looker_

L: They might have had one, had we been an assassination task force. Batman made the rules very clear at the outset: no killing. No sinking to the level of those whom we were fighting.

MC: How did the Outsiders react to his rules?

L: We followed them.

MC: Without question?

L: I wouldn't say that. We questioned. Then we did what he told us. Usually he knew what he was doing.

MC: But not always.

L: Actually, he did. Sometimes, things didn't work out as he'd planned them, but they always made sense.

MC: What happened when things went wrong?

L: We got captured or we lost our quarry.

MC: I meant, how did he react?

L: He'd analyse. Look over what would have worked. If the error was on the team's part, he drilled us, going over each error, explaining what went wrong. He demanded everything we had. We gave it. Then he demanded more. And we gave that, too.

MC: And if the error was on his part?

L: He drilled himself. He did that even if it was our fault, as if he was to blame for not training us adequately.

MC: Was he?

L: I can't speak for the early days. I wasn't on the team then. But by the time I joined, I would only say that he was to blame in the sense that a commander is held accountable for the performance of the soldiers under him. Not his fault. But he saw it at his responsibility.

MC: You're sure of that.

L: My abilities allow me to read other people's thoughts, Detective. I wasn't always as good at blocking them out. I've been inside his mind. I'm positive.

MC: You've been inside his mind?

L: Yes. Not recently, and I certainly wouldn't do so now, without his permission, but yes, I have been.

MC: Do you think that he's capable of firing a gun?

L: I think that it's the second-to-last thing he'd want to do, but yes. He's capable.

MC: Second-to-last?

L: Well, yes. The last thing he'd want to do is watch another innocent die.

MC: [20 second pause] How does Mr. Wayne deal with failure?

L: If it's something he can correct, he doesn't rest until he has. If it's something he can't, he doesn't rest until he's sure it won't happen again. Frankly, he's a lot quicker to excuse errors of judgment in others than he is in himself—and he's not at all quick to excuse errors in anyone.

MC: Is that why he left the Justice League to start his own team?

_Interviewee: Green Lantern_

GL: I don't _think_ so. I mean, Bruce isn't exactly the most open person at the best of times, so I can't say if he had other reasons.

MC: Was that "can't say" or "don't know"?

GL: At this point? You're going back over a decade. I honestly don't know. We weren't happy when he stepped down, but time can give you a new perspective.

_Handwritten note: Head lowered, hands clenched, feet tapping. Stopped when I looked at him. —MC_

GL: Oh, sorry.

MC: Are you nervous about something?

GL: What? Oh. I... guess I'm not great when it comes to interviews. Never have been.

MC: You know that this isn't about you, right?

GL: Sure, but I don't want to ruin things for Bruce.

MC: Do you think this position is a good fit for him?

GL: I honestly think that he's a good fit for anything he wants to be.

MC: Now, when he came back to the Justice League, was there any friction? Did you still trust him to have your collective backs, even though he'd walked out before?

GL: Look, nobody was under contract. We all had other jobs, other responsibilities. Most of us had our own cities to look after. So while we were all "League members," the truth is that there could be long stretches when any one of us was unavailable. Batman actually did us a favor by being upfront in telling us he was out.

MC: So his leaving had no bearing on your professional relationship.

GL: None.

MC: Now, it's fairly obvious that he's done well, both as a team leader and as a lone fighter. How would you rank him as a team _player_?

GL: I think... I'm not sure if I can explain this well. He's a fantastic planner. He'll come up with a plan and you know that if you follow it, there's a very good chance that you, and everyone with you, are going to make it out alive. He... sometimes, on the news, you'll hear phrases like "acceptable losses," or "collateral damage," when they're talking about a military action. It probably means something like "500 people were facing certain death. We rescued 490. That's fantastic." Batman is all about "If ten people have to stay behind, you can ask for volunteers, but make sure that you're one of those ten." He doesn't accept "acceptable losses". And that's why he prefers that you follow his plans, but you don't follow _him_. Because he knows that he's going to bring out all 500 people or die trying—but he doesn't want it on his conscience that his teammates may have died trying to help him.

MC: So he left because he didn't want to endanger others, and then went directly into leading an untrained team into greater danger?

GL: Um...

MC: Green Lantern?

GL: [45-second pause]

MC: I'm not doubting you, but I am trying to understand. If he's a loner who doesn't like to lead, why would he found and lead a new team?

GL: I'm guessing he had some plan. I mean, he wouldn't do something like that unless he thought it was necessary.

MC: To found a team, or to leave the League? Since, as you say, he could have just taken an extended absence, rather than formally resign.

GL: Yeah, but if he had been a member in good standing when he led the Outsiders into Markovia, it wouldn't have reflected well on the League.

MC: Would you have kicked him out for that?

GL: I... don't know.

MC: Okay. Now he resigned from the League not long before he was arrested in Gotham, too, right?

GL: Yes.

MC: Why?

GL: I wasn't there.

MC: But you know.

GL: Not really. Things happened. He wanted to go it alone.

MC: Things?

GL: It was shortly after Sue Dibney's death. I know that hit us all hard.

MC: But you didn't all resign. Was there anything... going on between Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Dibney?

GL: What? You've got to be kidding me. No. No, of course not.

MC: Sorry. I'm trying to understand what's going on here. Murder is a terrible thing, yes. But only Mr. Wayne resigned. Why? Did he think that you were pursuing the wrong suspect?

GL: No.

MC: Did he think that the investigation was being mishandled?

GL: No. Actually, he was handling it.

MC: Is it possible that he discovered evidence of some sort of cover up?

GL: C-cover up? Like what?

MC: I don't know. That's why I'm asking. Was someone attempting to conceal evidence?

GL: [60 second pause]

MC: Was Mr. Wayne keeping back evidence?

GL: No.

MC: Was someone else sabotaging the investigation?

GL: No. Well, kind of. I mean the killer was someone we knew and she was trying to deflect suspicion away from herself, but she wasn't investigating.

MC: So Wayne completed the investigation, caught the killer, and resigned.

GL: Not right away.

MC: How did he react when he discovered who the murderer was?

GL: He was shocked. Horrified. We all were.

MC: Do you think he stalled? Maybe because he didn't want to believe the facts before him?

GL: You really don't know him very well, do you?

MC: I'd like to.

GL: Bruce doesn't shy away from the evidence—not even when it's pointing where he doesn't want it to. He'll dig deeper if the pieces don't fit, but once he sees the pattern, he doesn't pretend it's not there.

MC: So he saw something familiar in the Dibney investigation. He remembered a similar case?

GL: Yes.

MC: And he realized where the evidence was pointing.

GL: Yes.

MC: What tipped him off?

GL: Sorry?

MC: What was the pattern he didn't want to believe he was seeing? You said that the evidence was pointing in a direction he didn't like.

GL: Well... that the killer was someone we knew.

MC: And someone was covering for them.

GL: No. No, once and for all, that wasn't the cover up!

MC: Oh? Then what _was_ the cover up?

* * *

It was easier to fire the gun when he used rubber bullets—at least if, by "easier," he meant that he could now pull the trigger and not feel his heart pound in his chest. When he checked the target, however, he found that of the fifteen shots that he had fired, fourteen had missed the target altogether, while the last had barely entered the outermost ring of the bulls-eye (he still couldn't bring himself to use a silhouette-style target). He sighed.

"Can we come down?" Selina called over the intercom. "Helena wants to say goodnight."

Bruce closed his eyes. He'd barely spent any time with his daughter over the last day and a half. With the stress that he was under, he hadn't wanted to risk losing his temper around her. "Wait two minutes," he replied. "I need to put something away."

* * *

"You what?" Barry yelped.

On the other end of the phone, Hal gulped. "You weren't there, Bar'. He just kept after me and after me until he dragged it out."

Barry groaned. "So, wait. You get captured by Chechnyan terrorists —the military hands you a medal—for withstanding days of torture, I might add. You fight Sinestro and Hector Hammond. You take on _Darkseid_. But you'll spill the beans to a police backgrounder who isn't even making _you_ the focus of the investigation?" At Hal's silence, he went on. "It wasn't just any medal, Hal. They gave you the POW Medal. It's like the badge that tells everyone that you're not someone who just gets weak in the knees when an interrogator decides to toss the Geneva Convention out the window in handling you. And you're telling me that you just gave in to a backgrounder? Geez... it's not like the GCPD uses torture... or drugs... or mind control." He rolled his eyes, half-wishing that they were on a video call so Hal would see it. "Well," he concluded, "it looks like Bruce needs to update his files on your weaknesses to include ... Just what did the guy roll out for you, Hal—was it a _staredown_? Or did he go straight to puppy dog eyes?"

"Cute."

"Hal," Barry continued, "when Sue died, you weren't even part of the League; you were the Spectre, for crying out loud. How hard would it have been to keep saying 'I don't know. I wasn't a member at the time?'"

Hal sighed. "Look, I know I messed up. I just figured I'd let you know, in case he tries to get more out of you when it's your turn."

Barry paused for a moment. "Fine," he replied. "I'll tell Wally to be prepared."

"Wally?"

Barry exhaled. "Yeah, he's going to have to fill in, seeing as..."

Hal listened to Barry's explanation. "You know," he said slowly, "maybe you should let Bruce know the cat's out of the bag on that one. I mean—"

"I hear you," Barry said. "If Bruce is going to conceal anything, I think he'd clam up about the mindwipes. Fine. I'm heading over to the manor tomorrow night after my interview, anyway; I was going to see if there was any way he'd accept an apology after all this time. You'll come with me. Tomorrow at eight—meet me outside GCPD ."

"Me?"

Barry waited.

Hal gulped, feeling like he was back in the interview room. "Yeah, okay, sure. Tomorrow." He hung up the phone. Instead of being over, it looked like his nightmare was just beginning.

* * *

"Hi, Daddy!"

Bruce smiled as Helena ran up to him. "She should be wearing slippers," he remarked, seeing bare toes peeping out beneath the hemline of her blue flannel nightgown. "The floor's cold down here."

"Oh, it's just for a minute," Selina replied. She gave her daughter a light shove. "Go give Daddy a good night kiss."

Bruce held out his hands as Helena bounded forward. He still wasn't used to displays of affection, but they were starting to feel more natural—at least, where Helena was concerned.

"Will you be coming upstairs any time soon?" Selina asked, trying not to giggle as Helena scrambled into Bruce's lap, wrapped her arms about his neck, and deposited a loud kiss on his cheek.

Bruce hugged her close. "Soon," he said. "At least, that's the plan." He touched his lips briefly to Helena's forehead and then released her. She looked around the cave with interest.

"Mmm," Selina said without rancor. "I've heard that one before."

Bruce had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm not trying to avoid you," he said. "It's just..."

"I know," Selina sighed. "You get involved in something down here and the next thing you know, it's nearly sunrise. Still... what if they call you to come in for another interview first thing in the morning?"

"Point." Bruce's shoulders slumped. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

"A good night's sleep isn't a bad idea," Jim's voice interrupted their conversation.

Bruce shot an irritated glance at the intercom. "You know, since Alex has officially ended my mandatory supervision, you don't _really_ need to keep monitoring me."

"Hey," Jim shot back, "I spy because I care. You taught me that."

Selina laughed. "I think he's got you there, handsome." Her eye fell on Helena and she nudged Bruce.

Bruce's scowl gave way to a smile. The little girl was walking carefully along a length of orange extension cord, her expression as serious as if she'd been on a tightrope. He started to get up, but stopped as he felt a hand against his chest.

"No, leave her," she said. "Let her do it on her own."

"For the record," Jim said seriously, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just thought you might want to know. I'm meeting with GCPD on Saturday morning." He chuckled. "Looks like you're still under consideration."

* * *

Dick was getting ready to leave on patrol when his phone rang. "Hello?"

"I need a favor," the voice on the other end said without preamble.

"Hal? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Look. Don't tell me how badly I screwed up—Barry's already read me the riot act, but I need you to run interference for me with Bruce."

Dick blinked. "Huh?" Then it sank in. "Hal? What did you _do_?"

That was when Barbara's voice came on. "Sorry to override your conversation, Current Bat Wonder, but I've got Barry on a priority channel. You need to take this."

Dick sighed. "I'll call you back, Hal."

"But..."

"Later." He hit the disconnect button. "Okay, Babs. Patch him through."

Barry was terse. "We've got a problem."

"Yeah," Dick said. "Hal was just about to tell me when you cut in."

Barry sighed. "That's actually not what I was calling about. You know, when they interview a law enforcement candidate, they interview just about _everyone_. Friends, family," he paused, "and _co-workers_."

Dick nodded. "Yeah, that shouldn't be news to either of us. So..." Then it hit him. "Paxton."

"Paxton," Barry confirmed. "He just might be able to scuttle this."


	8. 7. Mistakes and Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chiarello has uncovered one of the Justice League's worst coverups and he wants to get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile, not all of Bruce's colleagues have glowing reports...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Quick reminder that in this AU, Bruce never adopted Tim. When Locked Inside the Facade opened, Jack Drake had just died during Identity Crisis and Tim and Cass were operating out of Bludhaven.
> 
> Barry Allen being a full-fledged detective is my own invention. Chalk it up as one of the divergences in this divergent AU.
> 
> Spoilers/Trigger Warnings: Identity Crisis. Mention of rape.
> 
> "Unstoppable" written by Jay DeMarcus, James T. Slater, and Hilary Lindsay. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their Unstoppable album (Lyric Street, 2009).
> 
> Thanks to Kathy, PJ, and Xenith for the beta!

_So, so you made a lot of mistakes_   
_Walked down the road a little sideways_   
_Cracked a brick when you hit the wall_   
_Yeah, you've had a pocketful of regrets_   
_Pull you down faster than a sunset_   
_Hey, it happens to us all_

— _Jay DeMarcus, James T. Slater, Hilary Lindsay, "Unstoppable"_

**Chapter 7—Mistakes and Regrets**

Dick sighed. He'd probably never be able to devise as many contingency strategies in a day as Bruce could in an hour, but years of working alongside him had taught him one vital lesson: don't get so enamoured of Plan A that you ignore the evidence that suggests it's time to switch to Plan B. "Bruce invited you to the manor tomorrow night?"

"That's right," Barry confirmed.

Dick took a deep breath. "You know how it's going to look if the League raves about him and the board slams him."

"Actually," Barry said slowly, "I don't. We don't. It's going to come down to who Chiarello thinks is more reliable—and openness plays a big part of that."

"But we're being open," Dick countered. "Aren't we?"

"To a point," Barry replied. "Look, as it is, when they ask me how Bruce and I met, I'm going to have to talk strictly about encounters I've had with him as a police scientist. Now, it's true that I've turned to Bruce every now and again to help me with a case—heck, to use his lab; sometimes we'd get backlogged, or I'd suspect that someone was deliberately trying to slow down an investigation. Still and all, there's a lot more that I _could_ say if _my_ identity were a matter of record."

"I understand what you're saying," Dick said, nodding, "but don't you think they'll be aware that we're going to have to keep some stuff back?"

"Aware, yes. Okay with it, not really. It's really going to come down to whether they trust that we're being as open as we can be, or whether they think that we're intentionally holding back the kind of stuff they need to know about Bruce. Meanwhile, you're going to have Paxton and his flunkies acting open and aboveboard, all the while giving less-than-glowing accounts—and they'll have to, if they're trying to prove that Bruce isn't yet stable enough to come back to his company." Barry waited for that to sink in. "It could be problematic."

Dick took a deep breath. "I hear you. Especially when they ask Bruce why he thinks that the Board was running him down—they still do that, don't they?"

"Oh, yeah."

Dick sighed. "At least with me, I was more or less expecting it when Bruce refused to show up for me."

"That's right," Barry perked up. "I forgot that you were an officer for a while. What happened?"

"It... didn't take." He took another breath. "Okay. Change of plans. We tell him."

"I thought—"

"Look, what's better? Chiarello asks Bruce why the Board seems disturbed about his application and he sits there trying not to look like he's been caught off-guard, as he wonders whether Chiarello's fishing or whether they gave him a reason—and either way, Bruce doesn't know what it is... Or we tell him what's going on, how it ties in with the restraining order, and then fill him in on how we're fixing it?" Dick took another breath. "Either way, he's not going to like it. But this way, he at least knows what's going on."

"And if he forbids it?"

"Then we respectfully ask him to come up with something better, or we apologize and go ahead with what we discussed."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Barry? Are you still there?"

Barry chuckled. "I'm just trying to remember that earnest young man I used to know—the one who'd never have dreamed of defying Batman."

"C'mon," Dick protested, feeling his face grow hot. "I was eleven. We all grow up." He winced. "I mean..."

"I'm just teasing you," Barry said, a smile coming across clearly in his voice. "And I shouldn't. I think you're right. So... were you planning to come by the manor tomorrow night around supper time so we could tell him together, or did you want to handle it earlier?"

Dick considered. "Earlier. I think he'll deal with it better if he has to hear it from me alone. Then if he shoots the idea down, you can try to convince him when you show. Meanwhile," he smiled, "if we're done, I should call Hal back and find out what he was on about—he sounded pretty upset."

"Actually," Barry coughed, "I may as well fill you in on that too. I did tell him to come with me tomorrow evening, but if you think we shouldn't dump it all on Bruce at once, maybe that's another thing we should change. You see..."

As Dick heard Barry out, his expression changed from concern to incredulity. "Oh, he did _not_...!"

* * *

Tim sipped the coffee as soon as it had cooled enough to do so without burning his tongue.

"You realize that he needed an excuse," Barbara said as she poured herself a cup. "He doesn't blame you."

Tim shook his head. "He doesn't have to. _I_ blame me. I can't believe I fell for that stupid trap."

Barbara sighed. Then she looked up sharply. "Why'd you turn off your comm-link, anyway?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "I didn't think the victim was going to make it, and I didn't want to hear anyone asking me if she was okay while I was going to be trying my best to keep her with us. Stupid, I know. Anyway, that's why. And now..."

Barbara raised her eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "What would you say," she asked slowly, "if I told you that Bruce called Commissioner Sawyer about acquiring deputy status almost a week before you got nabbed? Tim, he wants to go back, but he knows that with his identity an open book, it's not going to happen without some sort of official sanction."

Tim's eyes grew wide. "So you mean that Joker's ultimatum had nothing to do with his decision."

She hesitated a moment too long.

He slumped. "Nice try."

"Tim!" Barbara snapped with a sharpness that startled them both. "He was about to back down—because of the gun-handling issue."

"You're not helping."

"But _you_ did!" Barbara took a deep breath. "He's afraid of guns. Knowing that saving you meant that he was going to have to work on it gave him the drive to push past that fear."

Tim shook his head with a bitter smile. "Bull. Bruce with a gun phobia? C'mon, Babs. Do you seriously expect me to believe that?"

Barbara regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then she reached up to the shelf over her computer and took down a jewel case, containing a single CD. "Bruce told us about it at a meeting the morning after you were captured," she stated. "I recorded it to fill you in later." She thrust the case at him. "When you're done playing it, if you still don't believe me, fine. Either way, we can discuss this further at that point. But you need to hear this."

Tim swallowed hard. Then he took the case gingerly and walked over to a nearby monitor.

Barbara went back to reading the report Zinda had given her on the Birds' recent mission to Austanburg. A moment later, she heard Bruce's voice clearly over the speakers as the CD began to play.

" _Some of this, you already know, but I'll start with that. Shortly before I was accused of murder..."_

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Interviewee: Plastic Man_

(Interviewer's note: Subject shape-shifted throughout the interview.)

MC: Could you please stop?

PM: What? Oh. Sorry. Nervous habit.

MC: Are you nervous about anything in particular?

PM: Just a little twitchy being grilled.

MC: Oh?

PM: Curse of a misspent youth. I paid my debt to society and all, but I didn't like getting interrogated then, and it sucks now. Frankly, if Bruce weren't a friend...

MC: So you think of him as a friend?

PM: Anyone who comes through for a guy as many times as he has, yes, I call him a friend.

MC: And would he say the same about you?

PM: I don't know.

MC: You don't. Um... could you change back?

PM: Oh, sheesh. Am I doing that again?

MC: Yes, and I feel silly talking to a puddle.

PM: Sorry. Where were we?

MC: You weren't sure if Mr. Wayne considers you a friend.

PM: Well, no. I'm pretty sure he does. I just don't know if he'd admit it. See... he's always serious. Grim. Never turns a frown upside down, you know what I'm saying?

MC: Go on.

PM: Well, a guy like me sort of sees that as a challenge—trying to get him to lighten up, I mean. So, I'd change myself into a whoopee cushion and sneak into his chair... that kind of thing.

MC: And?

PM: The frown stayed right-side up.

MC: I see.

PM: But deep down, way wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy down, I kinda think he likes me.

MC: You do. Do you trust him?

PM: About as far as I can throw him. When I've turned myself into a slingshot. Not one of those Dennis-the-Menace types. One of those giant kinds like Wile E. Coyote orders from Acme, except I wouldn't toss him into the side of a cliff. [Pause] Yes. That was a yes. I trust him.

MC: You sound a bit uncertain.

PM: I'm not, really. It's more... okay. Look. He has major trust issues. In the sense that he always comes up with contingency plans. What if Superman gets taken down early? What if Green Lantern goes rogue? What if I have beans for seven meals straight? It's not that he doesn't trust us, it's that he worries that maybe trusting us could be a problem. [Pause]. And since Superman nearly beat him to a pulp a few years back, maybe he's got a point.

MC: Was that the only time his trust was betrayed?

PM: I heard you spoke to GL. He was there. I wasn't. Heard about it later though. Yeah, if it had been me, I would've quit too when I found out—and a lot less politely. Sheesh.

MC: So you're saying his, um, trust issues are justified.

PM: What you just asked me about happened long before I joined the League. I didn't know about it then. Frankly, that's part of the reason I didn't rejoin when they started up the latest version. Thing is... Batman made up a bunch of non-lethal ways to take us—and by 'us' I mean the League—down, if we went rogue. He never said a word. He just stored the data on his computer. Knowing him, it was probably encrypted. Almost had to be. Someone got it. I don't know how. Next thing we knew, we were all trapped—some of us in our worst nightmares.

MC: How did he react?

PM: You mean as soon as he knew what was going on? He told us.

MC: Did he attempt to shift responsibility at any time?

PM: No.

MC: Did he make excuses?

PM: No.

MC: So he saw his... contingency plans put into practice, and he immediately confessed that they were his plans.

PM: Yelled it at the top of his lungs.

MC: What happened next?

PM: We neutralized the traps. Banded together. Fought the bad guy. Then we sat down and took a vote.

MC: A vote.

PM: On whether to kick him out of the League. He left before it was finalized.

MC: But if he had stayed?

PM: He would've been gone.

MC: But you reinstated him afterwards.

PM: After what he did... we all had trust issues. He... well, he doesn't exactly apologize, but... Before, you asked if I trusted him. I do. Because he showed that he trusted us. By unmasking. Oh, and I got to slug him. And he didn't hit me back.

MC: And you'd be willing to work with him again?

_Interviewee: Green Arrow_

GA: Sure, if he wanted to.

MC: Despite his... abrasive personality.

GA: Abrasive? Him? Sheesh, if I corroborate that, I'll have to hear about pots and kettles for months. Hell, the Bat's a flippin' diplomat, compared to yours truly. Sure, I'd work with him again. "Liking" doesn't enter into it. I'd have to be an idiot not to know that any team's odds are better if he's on it.

MC: So you don't like him

GA: I didn't say that. We're friends. Good friends. But... Well, let's just say we don't see eye to eye on a lot of issues. Doesn't matter. We've butted heads more times than I can count, and we've stayed tight.

MC: But you've had your differences.

GA: Why, no officer. We're cloned from the same donor. Exactly alike. Didn't you see the resemblance? Sheesh, it's like you're a damned telemarketer reading a survey off a script. Oh... sorry. That was uncalled for. I can always hang up on telemarketers.

MC: Is Arsenal your biological child?

GA: Huh? Uh... no. Why?

MC: I'm always curious about heredity versus environment. Okay. So you're friends, but you spend a good part of your time arguing, is that it?

GA: It's complicated. I mean, it's not like we hang out together outside of business. Sheesh, his idea of fun is upgrading his security systems. How are you supposed to get close to a guy like that?

MC: Did you wish you were closer to him?

GA: If you're asking what I think you're asking, buddy, the answer's no.

MC: How does Mr. Wayne deal with stress?

GA: He glowers his way through it, basically. Wait. Seriously, I've seen him meditate. Or hit the fitness equipment. Or hit the wall.

MC: Or hit other people?

GA: Only if they're breaking the law and moving to hit him first.

MC: How about if they're attempting to rewire someone else's brain?

GA: Oh. I was wondering whether we were going to go there. Well, let's see. On the one hand, we had a strict no-kill code that we all stood by, as members of the League. On the other hand, we had this piece of... _technically_ human scum who had just... forced himself on the wife of one of our members. We chose to deal with the matter internally, in such a way that the victim would never need to worry about the creep again. Actually we voted.

MC: To lobotomize Dr. Light.

GA: Well... I voted against. I was holding out for removing something else of his. Something that would fit the crime a bit better, if you take my meaning... but as it happened, I was in the minority on that one.

MC: And Mr. Wayne opposed the vote.

GA: Mr. Wayne came late to the party. He confronted us just as we were wrapping things up. We got nervous. I mean, as much as we agreed that something had to be done and we did it, when he showed, I think we all started doubting. Just for a second.

MC: So you removed his memory.

GA: Voted to. Ten minutes of his short-term memory. Just long enough to erase what he'd just seen.

MC: It didn't occur to you to try to talk him around to your point of view?

GA: Wouldn't have worked. I told you a few minutes ago that we don't always see eye-to-eye on things. This would have been one of those things.

MC: Do you have any regrets?

GA: Hmmm... Is this the point where I say I regret getting caught? Because, frankly, it kinda feels good to talk about it. Regret the mindwipe wearing off? Yeah, I guess. Maybe we should have had it out then and there, face to face, fist to fist. What would have happened? He'd have resigned in a huff? Wouldn't have been the first time or the last. Would he have tried bringing the Justice League to... justice? Nah, I think he probably would have had issues testifying against us in a court of law, right about the point when they ask you, 'would you state your full name for the record?' Regret the necessity of it all... stopping Light... stopping Batman... reaping the harvest years later... [pause] maybe. But then I ask myself... what would I have done, if I were faced with a similar situation today? I'm a married man. If I'd come home and found out that someone had attacked my wife... Hell. It would take a lot of fast-talking to get me to accept a psychic lobotomy over something more... permanent. And if anyone were to try and stop me once I was committed on that course... all I can say is that he'd better be out of bow-range. Whatever regrets I might have over what went down that day, Batman got off easy.

[Long pause]

MC: When he confronted you, was he angry?

GA: Yeah. Also shocked and horrified.

MC: Out of control?

GA: No.

MC: Have you ever seen him out of control?

GA: Okay... Have you already made your mind up about him?

MC: Excuse me?

GA: Look. You've been talking to all of us over the last day or so. Do you seriously think we haven't been comparing notes? You keep asking the same damned questions. Is he violent? Is he out of control? Is he abusive? Are you sleeping with him? So, here's the thing. If I tell you the truth and it goes against whatever picture you've constructed in your mind, are you going to change the picture? Or are you going to keep talking to us and hope one of us confirms what you're looking to hear?

MC: We do screen our applicants thoroughly, Mr... Arrow. Police brutality makes the headlines too often. We're trying to reduce that likelihood.

GA: Which is why you want to know if he's, you'll pardon my French, getting any?

MC: It's a standard question.

GA: Maybe you ought to rethink your standards.

MC: Have you ever known Batman to violate the law?

GA: If you've ever seen him swing over the rooftops from forty stories up, you could probably make a case for a gravity violation. What is that, a 10-56-Oh?

MC: A ten-fifty-si... Outstretched person. Funny man.

GA: Yeah, well when he swings away, he does. Stretch out, I mean.

MC: I get it. What _do_ you think of his parenting skills?

GA: They work for him. I could never be that much of a stick in the mud, but if you're going by results... he brought up two great kids.

MC: And buried one of them.

GA: Yeah, well life deals you a lousy hand once in awhile, and all you can do is suffer through and play it the best you can. When the Joker blows up your son, I don't think parenting skills factor into the equation.

MC: But if he hadn't made the boy his partner, he'd probably still be alive.

GA: Possibly. Not probably. There aren't many of us who can see what _could_ have been. And if you live in Gotham, I probably don't have to tell you that Joker... happens.

MC: So you don't think there's anything that he should have done differently?

_Interviewee: Harrier_

H: Well, I can't really tell you much about Jason. He was dead before I met Batman.

MC: How did you meet him?

H: I contacted Nightwing. He gave me a formal introduction.

MC: Just like that?

H: Like I said, I can't tell you much about Jason as a person, but I can tell you that after he died, Batman pretty much became a solo act. He got darker... scarier, too, but in all the wrong ways. I thought he needed to work with a partner, so I tracked down Nightwing, hoping I could convince him to team up with Batman again.

MC: You knew that Nightwing was the former Robin.

H: Yeah. I figured it out the night I saw Robin turn a quadruple somersault on the news. Only three people on the planet could do it. I'd watched one of them one night. And years later...

MC: You recognized the move.

H: Yeah.

MC: So you went after Nightwing.

H: Yes

MC: Then what happened?

H: Nightwing told me that he couldn't go back to being Robin... but that I could. And he convinced Batman to give me a try. [Pause] Yeah. I used to be Robin... the Robin you've been leaving messages for.

MC: Any reason you didn't just explain that when we spoke on the telephone?

H: I wasn't sure it was important. And I've seen too many people find out my secrets and get hurt.

MC: But you're telling me now.

H: You're recording the conversation. All I need is for you to listen to Robin and Harrier back-to-back and... Look, I don't want Bruce to get disqualified because I was stupid, okay?

MC: Do you think he's a good fit for the role?

H: I've seen him take down twenty or thirty armed men with zero casualties, resolve hostage crises, follow trails that were years cold... He's got more strategies than a chess grandmaster... and he probably _is_ a grandmaster, anyway—

MC: How is he at following someone else's orders?

H: He recognizes the chain of command.

MC: Then why did he try to seize command of police forces during the mob war?

H: He thought it was better than having GCPD second-guess him and get caught in the crossfire.

MC: But they _were_ caught in the crossfire.

H: Yes.

MC: In your opinion, what would have happened if they'd obeyed orders instead of following Mr. Wayne?

H: Honestly? I think you would have lost more people. Black Mask and the "families" would have gone on unchecked for a bit longer while you had some officers holding the line, SWAT ready to jump in... The police still would have walked into a firefight, only the other side would have been even more prepared.

MC: Would Mr. Wayne agree with your assessment?

H: No.

MC: No?

H: I don't know how many times I'd show up at our base of operations before patrol... or head back afterwards, and he'd be at the computers, running data, assessing his actions, calling up computer simulations. Every time someone died in front of him, he'd be trying to see what happened, what could have gone differently. I... there were times when I wanted to grab him and tell him it was enough already. That what happened was six people had guns and he couldn't disarm them all before someone got off a lucky shot. But every time I tried, he'd beckon me over to the screen and say, "I've found five scenarios so far where I could have saved them." Or ten. Or two. Or a million. It didn't matter. If there was one other way it could have gone down, he'd make note of it. He doesn't start ordering people around because he gets some thrill from being in charge. He does it because he wants to know that he did everything he could to keep casualties to zero.

MC: Has it ever occurred to him that if he followed orders, he might accomplish that?

H: If you take the mob war out of the equation, Sir... tell me who has the better track record? I ran the data before I came down. I already know the answer.

MC: So he's always right?

H: Of course not. But if I got to pick who to follow into a pitched battle... or a turf war... or firefight... or—if you'll excuse the dramatics—the jaws of Hell, it'd be Batman. Doesn't matter who the other players are. I know who I'd trust most, not only to get me back safely, but to bring everyone else in too...

* * *

After Harrier left, Chiarello looked at the clock. It was hard to believe that it was barely noon. Between Plastic Man's nervous shape-shifting and Green Arrow's overt hostility, it had been a long morning. At least, Harrier had been polite—a bit intense, earnest one moment and world-weary the next, but polite. He checked his afternoon roster and smiled. He'd intended to finish with the Capes—or at least, the ones he considered to be "peripheral" Capes, as opposed to Wayne's son—before he moved on to the PMWE contingent . For the most part, that was happening. He still had Huntress and the Flash this afternoon.

He was waiting to hear back from Blackgate about whether they would allow him to interview Two-Face. He could probably take care of that one tomorrow or Saturday, assuming that approvals came through. For now, he had an hour for lunch. After that, he was going to start talking to the execs at PMWE—Huntress had asked for spot at four o'clock or later. He'd slated her for five—that gave him plenty of time for the suits from downtown. He had the Flash at six, and then the Keystone Cop. He smirked. Sure, the guy was coming from Central, not Keystone, but they were practically one city anyway.

He took a sip of cold coffee. The more he thought about it, the less surprising it seemed that Wayne had emerged from Arkham as stable as he appeared. How many hours in the field had he logged with Arsenal or Green Arrow? Had he ever had to deal with both of them at the same time? Crap, it was no wonder the man preferred to work alone.

It was going to be interesting to see what Wayne's civilian acquaintances were going to say. Interesting, but—Chiarello thought to himself—probably useless. How often had they ever seen the guy? Still, it was his job to conduct a thorough investigation, and he was going to cover every base.

His phone rang, jerking him out of his thoughts and he picked up. "Chiarello."

"Sawyer, here."

He reached automatically for a pad and pen. "Go ahead, Commissioner."

"Just checking how your investigation's proceeding."

Chiarello sighed. "It's moving."

"Will you need to speak with Mr. Wayne again?"

He frowned, thinking about some of the things he'd been learning over the last thirty-some hours. "It seems likely," he said slowly. "Why?"

"Dr. Cinar informs me that he's scheduled Wayne's assessment for Sunday. I thought you might want to be aware—and consider scheduling Wayne for Saturday evening, if possible."

Chiarello laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, Wayne's been pretty cooperative overall. I guess having him stick around after the shrink is done with him would be cruel and unusual." He considered. "Yeah, I've pretty much got Saturday booked solid until five. If I'm asking Wayne back, it'll have to be after that."

"Make it six-thirty, then," Sawyer said with finality.

She hung up almost as soon as he responded with a "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Jim was rolling his eyes when he let him in. "It's good you're here," he greeted Dick as he jogged Helena against his shoulder. "Maybe you can talk some sense into them."

Dick flinched at the loud voices emanating from the study. "What's going on?"

Jim started to say something, but broke off with a sigh of exasperation. "I swear, you don't want to know," he said with feeling. "They went up to the attic to find some old records to play for Helena—it seems that Bruce has quite the collection packed away." He shifted Helena to his other shoulder.

"Here," Dick reached out. "I can take her."

Jim passed her over without a word of complaint. "Thanks."

Helena seemed about to protest the new arrangement, until Dick smiled down at her, hoisted her up in the air, and seated her piggyback on his shoulders. She giggled and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Dick winced.

"Sorry," he said, bouncing lightly from one foot to the other. "You were saying?"

Jim's lips twitched for a moment. Then he sighed. "Damned if I know. One minute they're playing the album, and Helena's loving it, and the next..."

The voices were getting louder. Dick shook his head. "Come on, Helena," he said taking a firm grip on her legs. "Let's see if we can figure out what's happening."

* * *

As he strode toward the study, his frown deepened. He could hear the words now, but they didn't seem to be making sense.

"I keep telling you," Selina was snarling, "it's the right foot first. Best foot forward!

Bruce's voice, softer but no less intense, snapped back, "it goes from weakest to strongest. Therefore, it _should_ be the left foot first, as it is in every other version I've ever heard."

"Well, Darling, _I'm_ left-handed," Selina shot back, as Dick nervously pulled the door open, "and if you ask me, there's one version that finally got it right!" She turned and saw Dick. "Fine. We'll ask him! _He_ knows!"

"As do I," Bruce retorted. "It's the left foot!"

Dick blinked. "Huh?" Then his eye fell on the album jacket that was resting on the sofa. His jaw dropped. "The... You're fighting over..." Words failed him. "The _Hokey Pokey_? Is _that_ was this is all about?" He closed his eyes with a moan. "I did not just say that."

They looked at each other. Selina giggled. Bruce's lips twitched. Helena crowed. And a moment later, Jim smiled as he heard the shouts of laughter emanating from the study.

* * *

"I'm not going to ask why you didn't mention getting served with a restraining order," Dick said, after they had all calmed down somewhat.

Bruce's expression turned thunderous once more. "I appreciate your concern," he said. "But tell Barbara that I would prefer that she stopped running these checks."

"She didn't," Dick replied.

"And I would have expected you to place a bigger premium on my privacy."

"It wasn't me, either," Dick sighed. "It was Ron Chester."

It wasn't often that Dick had the pleasure of catching Bruce off-guard. "Chester?" Bruce repeated, startled. "What in the world does he have to do with..."

Dick slid the album over to the next sofa cushion and sat down where it had been. "Have a seat, Bruce. It's kind of a long story..."

* * *

After Dick finished explaining what Chester had told him, there was a long silence. Then...

"Clayface owes me a favor," Selina growled softly. "I can call it in any time."

Bruce gave her a hard look. "No."

"But, just think of it for a second. Paxton walks into Gotham National and hands a hold-up note to the teller. They catch it all on film." She sniffed. "See how he likes it." At Bruce's scowl, she held up her hands. "Okay, okay. Just fantasizing. Sheesh."

Bruce shook his head, but neither Dick nor Selina missed the fleeting smile. "I didn't tell you," he said, "partly because I didn't want you to worry. I'd called Rae, and she seemed more irritated than concerned." He sighed. "Also," he looked at Selina, "as much as I would prefer to deal with this matter directly, I can't be seen to be in violation of the restraining order, for however long as it's in effect. That would extend to anyone associated with me taking matters into their own hands." His lips twitched. "It's not that I don't trust you. This forced inactivity is... frustrating. I didn't want to share a problem with you that you couldn't do a thing to solve."

Dick smiled. "Okay, for future reference? I can deal. Share with me. After Ark..." He stopped. "Never mind."

Bruce slumped. "You don't have to remind me," he said quietly. "I've put you through enough of that."

"Bruce, for... Okay, look. Instead of thinking about stuff you can't go back and change, start realizing that, if I dealt with something worse for almost two years, I can _probably_ handle this too. No offense, but it's like you're freaking out over my walking a balance beam when you've seen me on the high wire. At least this will be over soon."

Bruce nodded. "The hearing is in a week. I... _we_ just need to hold on until then."

Selina frowned. "But with Paxton hiring False Face..."

"That won't be an issue," Bruce said, turning back to face Dick. "Now that we know what he's planning, we can play this the way we did when I first got out of Arkham: I'll find some reason to be at GCPD headquarters. They may call me in, but if they don't, I can always discuss one of the cold cases with Montoya. That gives me an alibi—"

"Yeah," Selina said. "Unless they take it one step further. Suppose," she said, "just for one minute that you _were_ stalking her. And you wanted to keep doing it, either despite the restraining order or because of it. Bruce, there are plenty of celebrity impersonators out there making a pretty good living. Suppose her lawyer," she looked at Dick, "you said Paxton's paying Ryerson's attorney fees?"

Dick nodded. "According to Chester."

"Yeah. If I were in that lawyer's shoes, I'd say that Bruce set the whole thing up in order to scare the hell out of Ryerson and get away with it. I have no clue whether that line would hold up, but if you were spotted in two places at once, then who's to say which sighting was genuine?"

Bruce nodded glumly. "That's possible," he admitted.

"Yeah, but not very likely." Dick grinned. "Fortunately, once I found out what was going on, I figured out a way to nip this whole thing in the bud, give you your alibi—and by the way, you _will_ be called in on Saturday night. Sorry about that, but it's the best way—and, with luck, leave Paxton fuming. Did you know that Barry got his detective shield last year?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "He never mentioned it, no."

"Well, he did. So, once I found out that he was going to be in Gotham anyway, he and I set something up."

Bruce listened carefully to Dick's explanation. Finally, he nodded slowly. "It's a good plan," he said. "Only it doesn't go far enough."

"What? We stop False Face, Chester legit gets to say he never showed up. You've got an airtight defense, the restraining order gets overturned, and we all call it a day."

"And Paxton gets away with it."

Dick sighed. "Yeah, but now that we know what he's up to, we can be on our guard. It's not like the old days. I can't crash into his bedroom window and snarl at him—not when he's got a pretty good idea who's under the cowl."

"No, I realize that," Bruce said. "But if you make a few minor alterations to what you have planned, then..."

As Bruce kept talking, Dick's eyes widened. "Now that," he said, "that is absolute gold. Okay, you've sold me. We'll run it by Barry when he gets here."

Bruce nodded. "You were planning on staying for supper, then."

"Well, until supper," Dick said. "Wally and Linda are eating with us. I sort of figured—no offense, but I didn't want another round of 'my, how you've grown.'" He looked down. "It makes me feel silly. And old."

Bruce snorted. "How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" He sighed. "I may need that spar on Saturday night, if you aren't too tired after patrol."

"Yeah, I really am sorry about—"

"Don't be. Jim already told me that it's fairly common to have a candidate come back for another session to shed light on what may have been said during the other interviews." He sighed. "It used to be easier."

"Easier?"

"I'm walking a fine line, Dick. The GCPD wants full disclosure, and—while I loathe the process—I can at least understand the rationale. When I've had to construct a profile on someone, my own investigations have been no less intrusive. They've just been conducted without that person's knowledge."

"So..."

"So, some answers aren't mine to disclose. Let's just say that if Chiarello starts asking questions about my record with the League, or why I left, I doubt he'll be satisfied with a vague 'I thought my talents were better used elsewhere.' There are some things that I do not," he closed his eyes, "wish to discuss. Or relive." He let out a long breath. "And I'm not sure that I _can_ discuss them without disclosing certain issues that I don't believe Chiarello needs to know."

Dick studied him pensively for a moment. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Which do you want first; the good news or the bad news?"

* * *

"I appreciate your taking the time to come in, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said politely.

"Not at all. Although, I have to admit that I was more than a bit perturbed when you explained to me the reason for your call."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"Well, yes. You said that Bruce is toying with the idea of becoming a police officer, if I recall correctly?"

Chiarello gave him a tight-lipped smile. "You could say that. Like I said on the phone, I just need about an hour of your time to help us with our background investigation."

"No trouble at all," Paxton replied affably. He frowned. "May I ask whether Bruce listed me as a reference?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge whether you're here at his request or ours. Why? Is there a problem?"

Paxton shook his head. "No, I suppose not. Just... if he had, I'd be somewhat surprised is all."

"You don't like him?"

Paxton laughed. "Well, it's hard to say, really. It's not as if I ever really spent much time with him."

"But you've been on his company's board of directors for... how many years has it been?"

"Eight," Paxton replied, lacing his fingers together. Then he laughed again and spread his hands wide. "But I doubt if Bruce and I logged more than eight hours together in those eight years worth of meetings. He always had something more important to take care of, like golf. Or sleeping."

"Or being Batman?"

Paxton chuckled. "We generally conducted business during the daylight hours. If he preferred sleeping at that time, well, I guess that would say a bit about where his priorities lay, now, wouldn't it?"

"Do you have any reservations about his becoming an officer?"

Paxton sighed. "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer that question, seeing as I never really knew the man. On the other hand, well, he did spend that time in Arkham, which would tend to cast doubt on his stability. And has it occurred to you that, by bringing Batman onto your... staff, you're handing him the opportunity to conduct himself in much the same way he did in the past—only this time, with full official sanction?"

Chiarello's face betrayed nothing. "How do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, he did have a way of shadowing people for days on end, hoping to intimidate confession out of them, from what I understand. And now, well, just a few days ago, I had a hysterical woman sobbing on my telephone line about how Bruce keeps hounding her and won't give her a moment's peace because she protested at his hearing. She even filed a restraining order against him. Honestly, I hope she was misreading the situation, and Bruce's actions were completely innocent. Because if the media were to get wind of the restraining order, and find out that your people were actually contemplating giving him a badge? And a _gun_?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't want to be in your department's shoes, if word of _that_ got out."


	9. 8. Past Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The character interviews continue. Meanwhile, Hal and Barry have a long overdue apology to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta.
> 
> Movin' On written by Phillip White and D. Vincent Williams. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their Rascal Flatts album (Lyric Street, 2000).
> 
> Spoilers: Brave and the Bold #28. The dialogue in the flashback was written by J. Michael Straczynski and is quoted directly from the issue. References to No Man's Land, Batman/Huntress: Cry for Blood, and Identity Crisis.

_I've dealt with my ghosts and I've faced all my demons_  
Finally content with a past I regret  
I've found you find strength in your moments of weakness  
For once I'm at peace with myself  
I've been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long...

— _Phillip White, D. Vincent Williams, "Movin' On"_

**Chapter 8: Past Regrets**

"Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said with a polite smile. "Should I need to get in touch with you again, may I contact you at work?"

Paxton shook the extended hand firmly. "I'm just happy to have been of some assistance," he said. "At least, I hope I have been," he added, looking a bit dismayed. "You must understand—Bruce is a fine man, and I was sorry to hear of his breakdown. It's heartening to know that he seems to have received the help that he so desperately needed. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share my concerns. I mean, imagine what he might do if he came upon some young man that he'd had dealings with in the past and..."

Chiarello nodded understandingly, as Paxton reiterated the same worries he'd been voicing throughout the interview. Inside, though, he winced. It wasn't as though Paxton was saying anything that half the cops in the precinct weren't whispering about. Still, it was disappointing to hear. Once the executive had finished speaking, Chiarello rephrased his question. "How may I contact you, in the event that we need to speak again?"

Paxton smiled. "Oh, of course. Do you have a pen and paper handy? Let me give you my personal cell phone. You can call me with respect to this matter any time..."

* * *

After Paxton left, Chiarello frowned to himself. Over the course of the last couple of days, he'd been slowly putting aside the concerns that had bothered him when Sawyer had first assigned him to the investigation. Those concerns were being rekindled now.

Wayne had basically left his company in the hands of people he trusted and barely paid attention to it for years. If Fox had been a man with less integrity or ability, Wayne could have been bankrupted years ago. Had he been more suspicious, Wayne's nocturnal activities might have come to light a hell of a lot sooner. Either way, Paxton had brought up a valid point: when Wayne wanted to pursue something, he poured all his energies into it, yes—but he paid scant attention to his other responsibilities.

Looked at in that light, Chiarello had to wonder whether Wayne's leaving the League to found his own team wasn't part of that pattern. He'd thought he could do more good elsewhere, and he'd trusted the League to carry out their mandate without him. His reasons might have been good ones, but the fact remained that he'd had responsibilities, and he'd delegated them without a second thought. How would the GCPD fare, if Wayne decided that there was something else that he'd rather be doing?

Chiarello sighed. Was it fair to the taxpayers to invest in Wayne's training, when there was a good chance that he wasn't going to stay the course?

He looked at the time. Huntress would be here in less than an hour, but he still had time to grab a coffee. He checked his voicemail. Lucius Fox was confirming for tomorrow. And Timothy Drake was apologizing for not getting back to him sooner, but he was currently in Switzerland and wouldn't be back for two weeks. Chiarello sighed again. That was one interview to conduct over the telephone.

He left messages for both callers and went off in search of his coffee.

* * *

_Interviewee: Huntress_

MC: You're not one of his... partners, correct?

H: Not in any sense of the word.

MC: But you work in this city.

H: Less than I used to.

MC: Is there a reason for that?

H: Well... I used to operate solo, and now I'm part of a team. We travel.

MC: So this has nothing to do with Mr. Wayne's approval or disapproval?

H: Who've you been talking to?

MC: Why?

H: Look, we've had our differences, but they're long past.

MC: What kind of differences?

H: Did you notice I carry a crossbow? It doesn't fire Nerf-bolts.

MC: So you take a... harder line than he did.

H: Look, no offense, but it's not like any police force I know carries water pistols. I don't go out there with a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mentality, but if someone's going to try deadly force on me, I'll do what's necessary to defend myself.

MC: How often have you found it... necessary?

H: Actually, less than I thought I would when I first put on Kevlar. Batman made it clear from the start that if I killed anyone on his watch, he'd bring me in.

MC: Did you resent that?

H: Oh, yeah.

MC: But you went along with it.

H: Would you want him ticked off at you?

MC: Are you afraid of getting him ticked off?

H: I'm afraid of being locked up under the same roof as a lot of people I helped get locked up. Crooked cops don't do well in general population. I don't think the odds would be too high in my favor either.

MC: So you played by his rules.

H: That's right.

MC: Because you feared for your safety if you didn't.

H: No.

MC: But you said he'd bring you in.

H: He would have tried. I don't think I could take him in a fight, but I didn't fear. Not for my safety. Not from him.

MC: Then what did you fear?

H: [Pause] Letting him down.

MC: Has he ever let you down?

H: Ye-no... yes. Let's just say it was mutual.

MC: Clarify?

H: During the No Man's Land, I operated as Batgirl—and that was when I realized that playing by his rules wasn't just something I was doing because he insisted. Because, for months, he wasn't around. Were you here then?

MC: Bludhaven.

H: Ah, I see. Well, let's just say it made _Lord of the Flies_ look like _Leave it to Beaver_ , shall we? I mean, if there was ever a time when I could justify killing as self-defense and nobody would have said a word against it, it was then. There was no law, no order... nothing. And through it all... I... If I was dressing the part of a Bat, I felt like I had to act it, too.

MC: Why did you?

H: Huntress didn't have the same brand recognition. And... the city wanted him. He wasn't there. I figured with the cowl, if I stuck to the shadows, maybe I could feed off his reputation.

MC: And when he came back, he felt that you'd...

H: No. Actually, when he came back, he accepted me. Until he left me to hold the fort, and I got outnumbered. Three people died. They were... hung up on a wall as an example.

MC: And he blamed you.

H: He held us both responsible.

MC: Both?

H: Me for not being able to save them. Himself for... well... I thought it was for trusting me.

MC: It wasn't?

H: I kept telling him I could handle things—acting like I could. When I couldn't, he told me to lose the cowl, but I think he blamed himself for overestimating me.

MC: He told you that?

H: No. If he had, I probably would've seen if he'd reinforced the Kevlar since the last time I shot him.

MC: You shot him?

H: Despite everything I've said about him, that actually was an accident. I got caught off balance and released the bolt without meaning to. He wasn't expecting it. I wasn't expecting it.

MC: Did he bear you any ill-will after he recovered?

H: No. He believed me.

MC: And there was no resentment?

H: None.

MC: How long did it take you to earn his trust?

_Interviewee: The Flash_

F: Not all that long. I used to be Kid Flash. Robin and I were pretty close on the Teen Titans. We hung out. So, Robin got to know my family and I got to know his.

MC: How did Batman react when you became the Flash?

F: Well, we were all mourning my mentor's death. And... funny. I thought nobody would believe I could fill his boots. Maybe that was what everyone else was thinking—I don't know. I know that I was thinking it. I was a kid. Maybe not legally, but I sure didn't feel ready to take his place. Batman... it was sort of hard to know how much was me projecting and how much was him doubting me.

MC: So he did doubt you.

F: At first. But, like I said, he wasn't the only one.

MC: What made him change?

F: I... guess he saw me in action. And, well, he'd worked with my mentor. I know that Robin had issues with getting Batman to recognize that he'd grown up. We're the same age. It wouldn't be that off-base if he saw me as a kid, too. Heck. Having the name "Kid Flash" probably didn't help me. But once I stopped comparing myself to my mentor, I think he did, also. Or maybe it was around the time he admitted that Robin wasn't a kid anymore. Look, I can't really say when he stopped doubting me, but if he didn't stop, he at least kept quiet about it.

MC: Did you find him easy to work with?

F: Depends on what you mean by easy. He has a way of knowing what you're capable of doing, even if you don't know yourself. I... you know those novelty t-Shirt stores? There was this one I saw that read "I will stop demanding the impossible when you stop achieving it." I almost bought it for him. Then I realized he'd never wear it anyway.

MC: So, how did it work? He gave orders and expected them to be followed?

F: He came up with plans. We'd follow them because they worked.

MC: And if you didn't want to go along with them?

F: Then we knew he'd be right there to say "I told you so" when they blew up in our faces. Or at least think it.

MC: And when HIS plans blew up in your faces?

F: It didn't happen often, but when it did, he took it seriously.

MC: How seriously?

F: What, you mean on a scale of one to ten? Twelve. I don't understand the question.

MC: How closely have you worked with him?

_Interviewee: Detective Barry Allen_

BA: Fairly closely. There were times when our department was stuck on a case. As you're aware, the Flash and the Central City Police Department have a good working relationship. But if we had a problem we couldn't solve, there would be times when the Flash would bring in the Batman to have a look.

MC: How did that go down with your superiors?

BA: I'm not really sure. I work with a great team of people. Professional, well-trained, extremely good at what they do. And they're all detectives, either officially or otherwise. So, I can't help thinking that they noticed my solve rate going up a bit whenever Batman was in town.

MC: And they went along with it?

BA: He got the evidence we needed.

MC: And you verified that it was legit?

BA: Yes.

MC: Always?

BA: Yes.

MC: Was it ever too good to be true?

BA: I double-checked it. If anyone had ever asked me, point-blank, how I got my hands on the proof I needed...

MC: How could you double-check it?

BA: By forgetting that I wore a lab-coat and not a shield. Before Batman went in, Flash would bring me along. Batman's suit had recording equipment, including an AV feed. I'd be nearby watching. He'd go first, check for booby traps, and, once he knew that there weren't any, I'd come in.

MC: Wasn't that a bit dangerous?

BA: With Batman and the Flash having my back? Not really.

MC: Did you know he was Bruce Wayne?

BA: Um... Okay. When his identity was made public, it didn't come as a shock to me. I admit I hadn't put two and two together, but... well... if Batman was ever in Central or Keystone for longer than a single night, it seemed like Bruce Wayne was there on business during the day. The thing is, I didn't have a lot of dealings with Bruce Wayne. I'd just see an article in the business pages speculating about why he was in town. So, maybe I should have been suspicious of the coincidence, but most of the time? Batman _did_ get things taken care of in one night. He didn't always solve the crime, but he was able to show me what path we might want to pursue.

MC: And now you have your shield?

BA: I... [10-second pause] I got used to being in the thick of things. I decided it was worth taking the detective's exam.

MC: When'd you pass it?

BA: Four months ago.

MC: Ah, you're still on probe! How are you liking it so far?

BA: It's funny. I always thought I was happy in the crime lab. Now that I've got a taste of working homicide... I can't imagine not doing this.

MC: I thought you were here investigating some sort of mob link.

BA: Yeah, organized crime isn't really an issue in Central anymore. But we've had a couple of bodies turn up recently. The victims were killed execution-style, and the investigation points to a Gotham organized crime connection. Since it's homicide, CCPD put me on the case, and since there's a Gotham connection and your people have more experience dealing with mob shootings... here I am on temporary assignment.

MC: Lucky you. Well... welcome to Gotham. And, getting back to the matter at hand... If Mr. Wayne was applying to join the Central City PD, and you were on the hiring panel, would you pass him?

BA: In a microsecond.

MC: Thank you, Detective.

* * *

Hal was lounging against one of the stone lions that stood guard over the steps outside the GCPD building when Barry emerged. "You're really going to make me go through with this."

Barry shook his head. "I can't _make_ you do anything, Hal. Least of all, something we should have done years ago."

Hal slumped. "I know. What are you going to say?"

"I'm still working on it," Barry admitted. "But I'm pretty sure 'I'm sorry,' is going to be one of the key points."

"Are you?" Hal asked bleakly. "Or are you just sorry he remembers it all now? Because I've been asking myself that question for the last few days. If we had it to do over, would we change anything?"

Barry sighed. "I'd like to think I would. I don't _know,_ but I'd like to believe that if I'd voted to carry out a decision that I knew _then_ was more 'the lesser of two evils' than 'the greater good', this time, I'd try to state my case instead of covering it up."

Hal nodded. "I had to deal with a lot of questions like that when I was the Spectre," he admitted. "I still don't have all the answers."

Barry took a deep breath. "You don't have to come. Dick already told him. So, if you were worrying how to break it to him about what you told Chiarello, you can stop."

Hal pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. "We both know that was never going to be the hard part." He sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

Bruce kept his face expressionless when he opened the front door. His eyes flicked from Hal to Barry, before he stood aside to let them come in. He ushered them both to the study and sank into a leather easy chair.

Hal started to follow suit, until Barry gripped his arm, pulling him back up.

One of Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "There's no need to stand on ceremony," he said mildly.

Barry took a deep breath. "I...that is, we..." He forced himself to maintain eye contact. "Fifteen years ago, we messed up in a major way. I... know you remember that now. I never forgot it." He exhaled.

Bruce's expression hardened. "Are you sure you want to bring this up?" he demanded.

Barry winced, but his voice stayed steady. "I think I have to."

"Why? Are you somehow under the impression that explaining your actions now can possibly alter what went before?"

Barry swallowed hard. "No. I know it won't. But if you've let me get this far, I... I really hope you'll let me finish. Look, when I called you, I didn't know if you'd even want to know me or if you'd just hang up the phone. Frankly, I wouldn't have blamed you if you _had_ hung up, instead of inviting me here." He tore his gaze away and looked at the floor. "Maybe an apology doesn't even begin to cover it, but that doesn't let me off from trying to make one."

He forced himself to meet Bruce's eyes once more. They were ice-cold, betraying nothing. He swallowed again and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Bruce. Sorry for keeping my mouth shut after the mindwipe. Sorry for panicking when you caught us in the act, and for voting the way I did. And... maybe I can claim extenuating circumstances for why I cast that deciding vote when it came to lobotomizing Dr. Light, but it doesn't change the fact that, moment of weakness or not, I did cast it. And I'm sorry that I did—not just sorry you barged in on us. I'm sorry I agreed to it in the first place."

"We both are," Hal said.

Barry shook his head slowly. "You voted against it, Hal."

"Yeah," Hal replied. "The lobotomy. But as far as the mindwipe goes..." He glanced nervously at Bruce. "What he said. I know I can be a jerk sometimes, but I can't believe I was that much of one. Sorry."

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. For a long moment, he was silent. He opened his eyes again to see both men waiting apprehensively for his reply. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Have you apologized to Wally?" he asked.

The other two men stared blankly at him. "Huh?"

"How about Arthur? Diana? Kyle?" The names came faster now. "J'onn. Eel. Clark. And every other member of the League. Because I honestly don't know whether I would have developed my... protocols, if I hadn't known, on some primal level, the lengths that any of you might go to in order to cover up a misstep. I've checked my records. I _didn't_ begin to create those contingency plans until several months after the event. Of course," he continued, "the irony is that when those plans fell into the wrong hands, they injured people who had nothing to do with the earlier incident." He opened his eyes. "I... prefer not to keep grudges. For that reason alone, I can forgive you. After everything else that's happened to all of us in the last fifteen years, I..." He took another breath. His lips twitched. "I know _I'm_ not the same person I was fifteen years ago—and I haven't had the same... life-changing experiences that the two of you have. If you need my forgiveness that badly, it's yours. But don't think that the air between us is the only air that needs clearing."

"Point taken," Barry said. "And Wally and I _have_ talked," he added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he remembered just how painful that conversation had been. "But you're right about the others. It should have been addressed long ago. It will be."

"You see that as your... penance?" Bruce inquired.

Barry considered. "No. I see it is as the right thing to do, even if it's been a long time coming. Better late than never."

He saw it then. For a fleeting instant, Bruce smiled and gave him a quick approving nod. Then the smile vanished, replaced by Bruce's earlier poker face. "All right. Let's move on."

Barry blinked, momentarily unsure whether Bruce had actually said what he thought he'd heard.

Hal cleared his throat. "Um... I guess Dick already told you I spilled the beans to your interrogator... I mean investigator... I..."

Bruce held up a hand. "I think you were right the first time," he said, smiling once more. "Thanks."

"What?"

Bruce nodded. "I wouldn't have aired any of that in front of Chiarello. I've had to be candid about my own shortcomings, but I was prepared to draw the line at discussing any League... secrets. Thanks for absolving me of the need."

"You mean, you're not mad?"

" _I'm_ not," Bruce confirmed.

"But you might want to avoid Ollie for the next few weeks," Barry broke in.

"And Katar," Bruce added, his smile broadening, as he stood up and took a step forward.

"Oh, yeah," Barry grinned back. He reached out to clasp Bruce's shoulder. "It's good to see you again."

Bruce returned the gesture. "Likewise." He looked away for a moment. "Barry, I regret that Dick had to leave a few minutes before you arrived. I'll fill you in on what we discussed later. For now... I know I told you to come _after_ supper, but as it happens, we haven't eaten, yet. If you'd both care to join us...?"

Hal blinked. "Um... Sure. Wait a minute. _We? Us?_ As in, not just you?"

Bruce smiled. "Exactly."

* * *

The table was set for four. Five, if one counted the high chair in the corner. Barry's eyebrows shot up when Selina entered from the kitchen, holding Helena firmly by the hand. "You never mentioned... I mean... is she...?"

Bruce bent down and picked up his daughter. "This is Helena," he said quietly. "And... I suppose she is. Although I'd prefer you to avoid mentioning it, should Detective Chiarello wish to interview you further."

"Seriously?" Hal scoffed. "I know he's calling in just about everyone who knows you, but do you really think he's going to invite her for a session?"

Unconsciously, Bruce wrapped his arms more tightly around Helena. "Look," he said through clenched teeth, "even with all the precautions that we've taken—even with J'onn securing Sawyer's permission to enhance the security at GCPD—word about my... career change is eventually going to get out, and probably sooner rather than later. I've been living with the knowledge that I'm now an easier target than ever before. I deal with that because I have no choice." His expression softened for an instant. "Selina accepts the risk. But I don't want any mention of Helena in Chiarello's notes or in his thoughts. Is that clear?"

Hal and Barry nodded.

"I mean it, Jordan. He got to you once. I would suggest finding a reason to be off-planet before you let him get to you again."

"Oh, come on," Hal protested. "I thought he was just going to be asking about your character. I wasn't prepared for—"

"Exactly," Bruce cut him off. " _Be_ prepared, or be far, far away. Am I being clear?"

Hal nodded, his eyes mirroring Bruce's intensity. "You got it."

"All right." He strode past the two men to settle Helena into the high chair, pretending not to notice as Hal sent a friendly wave in his daughter's direction. "I suppose you want to sit next to her," he sighed.

Hal blinked. "Could I?"

"If you don't mind her tendency to share her meal with anyone in close proximity," Bruce said good-naturedly. "According to the child development websites, her hand-eye coordination is in the upper percentile for her age."

Barry laughed. "Why isn't that surprising?"

Hal shrugged. "It's not like I can't protect myself..."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Hal cast a baleful glance across the table at Bruce. "You remember that yellow things aren't a problem anymore, right?" He asked as the umpteenth pineapple tidbit bounced off of a hastily-improvised green helmet.

"You wanted to sit there," Bruce deadpanned.

"You set me up."

Barry guffawed. Selina grinned.

"Yes, Jordan," Bruce said with a long-suffering sigh. "I colluded with a toddler for long hours, teaching her how to map the trajectory of chopped fruit with absolute precision. You caught me."

Selina burst out laughing.

"You see!" Hal said, standing up and pointing dramatically in Bruce's direction. "He even admits it!"

"He warned you," Barry pointed out. "I'm a witness."

"So..." Selina said, nearly succeeding in keeping a straight face, " _Detective_ Allen, is it, now?"

Barry ducked his head. "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I hope you don't mind my curiosity, but what did it take to get you out of the lab after all those years?"

Barry hesitated.

"Oh," Selina forced herself to keep smiling. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized that it was something that I wasn't supposed to ask."

"No," Barry said. "No, it's fine. It's... sort of a long story, but I don't mind telling it." He took a deep breath. "It's just something that you might call an... unconventional story."

Selina frowned. " _How_ unconventional? I mean, you sort of... died for a bit, as I understand it. Does this have something to do with an afterlife of some kind?"

Barry shook his head. "More like a 'before,' actually. It wasn't long after I'd... returned," he began. "I was called to Belgium to assist a scientist who wanted to test a multispectrum laser that he'd been working on. It was supposed to change the speed of light by altering its vibration properties—"

"Sounds like Garton's work," Bruce mused aloud.

Barry blinked. "Yes, exactly." He took a moment to regain his train of thought. "In order to test the laser, Dr. Garton needed someone who could run at near light-speed while holding a device to monitor the hypothetical changes. So, I found myself in the fields of Ardennes, ready to further the cause of science when something unexpected happened." He paused and looked around the table. "The changes interacted with my own vibrating frequency and sent me back in time, trapping me in 1944."

Bruce frowned. "You couldn't get back?"

"Not unless I could match the same speed I'd been running at when I arrived—and I couldn't—when I got there, my leg was broken in two places. It was winter, and it was about all I could do to speed up my molecules so I wouldn't freeze to death. As it turned out, I had other worries. I almost got killed by a German patrol, and no sooner did I evade them than I ran into the Blackhawks, who mistook me for an enemy spy." He sighed. "It didn't help matters much that when I identified myself as 'The Flash,' they knew what Jay Garrick's costume looked like." He looked down. "Fortunately, one of the team had seen the whole thing and vouched for me. I figured there was no way that I'd be able to fake being native to the time—not when I was stuck there until my leg healed up. I might have been able to manage for a day or two, but weeks? When they were already suspicious? I didn't want to bank on a fair trial if they decided I was a spy after all, so I told them as much as I could."

"Which was evidently enough so that they believed you," Bruce commented drily.

"I got lucky. Their leader realized that a lot of what was top secret in their time should be common knowledge to me—if I really was from the future. And it turned out that they'd had a hand in smuggling some German scientists out of the country to work on a top secret project in New Mexico. He asked me to name it." Barry smiled faintly. "You have no idea how thankful I was that I'd actually paid attention in history class."

"Well, the Manhattan Project _is_ an easy one," Selina pointed out.

Barry nodded. "Yes and no. Everyone's heard of it, but not everybody remembers where it was. I did." He sighed. "And that's when things started to get intense. We were ambushed by German foot soldiers. Blackhawk shoved a gun in my hand and told me they needed all the help they could get."

Bruce frowned. "But, you didn't—"

Barry closed his eyes. "Not then, no. I chucked a whole bunch of bricks at the enemy. Took them all out with no deaths. And Blackhawk reamed me for it." He winced, the scene replaying once more in his head as he told it over, the images and voices as crisp and clear as if he'd just been there yesterday. "I tried to explain why I hadn't fired, and..."

" _...You think this is a game or something? We're in the middle of a war. They shoot at us. We shoot at them. We kill them or they kill us."_

" _Killing isn't what I do. It's not..."_

" _Then it damn well better GET to be what you do—and fast. Because you're an American in the middle of a war, and if you don't pick up a gun and fight, then you're a coward and an impediment to the war effort—and I'll shoot you myself."_

Barry opened his eyes again, wondering if the others could hear the way his heart thudded in his chest. "He meant it, too. Maybe if I'd had my speed power back, I would have done things differently. No... I would have gone back to the present. Using my powers to influence the outcome of the war... the repercussions to the timestream might have been... Rip Hunter has horror stories he can tell about those. But I didn't have my speed power. And I did have the gun. And, I still don't know if I made the right decision, but I made one I could live with. One I've had to live with ever since."

"You took the gun," Bruce stated.

"I took the gun. I put on a U.S. infantry uniform, and I took the gun. The Flash doesn't kill. Doesn't carry a gun. But... Barry Allen, a soldier in the U.S. army in the middle of World War Two, was a different story."

He forced himself to meet Bruce's eyes, bracing himself for the anger and indignation he knew had to be there. Instead, he saw only sadness.

" _Did_ you kill?" Bruce asked softly.

Barry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I don't honestly know. I had a gun. I fired it. So did everyone with me. And a lot of the people we were firing at fell down and... and didn't get back up. I'm not sure whether any of the bullets from my gun were responsible for it, but I... I can't believe I was a consistently lousy shot. It's probable." He slumped. "Almost definite, I'd say."

"Anyway, eventually my leg healed up and I made it back to the present. The thing is, it took me a while to admit it at first, but I don't think it's possible to go through something like that and not have it change you. And no, I don't mean that I decided I liked pulling a trigger so much that I decided to go through the academy so I could get issued a revolver. You're going through the process now, and I think you can agree that they're doing their best to weed out people who actually _enjoy_ it. But working in a lab means that you aren't first on the scene. Sometimes, the people who are get sloppy or careless, or they miss things. I can only analyze the stuff that actually makes it back to my department."

He sighed. "Believe me when I tell you that there were a lot of times in the past that I'd thought about getting my shield, just because I figured I'd probably be of more use to an investigation if I was leading it. But knowing that I'd have to qualify with a firearm was always the deal-breaker." He shook his head.

"After I came back from 1944, it wasn't. I don't want you to think that I missed shooting. Or that this was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I actually had a few long talks with J'onn before I started the ball rolling. I wanted _him_ to determine that I was... stable enough to do what I was thinking before I spoke to my boss about changing tracks."

He paused. "I got my shield four months ago. Since then, I haven't had to draw a gun, much less fire one. I hope I never have to again. But if I do have to," he sighed, "then I will."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I've been trying to work on that myself," the admission came more easily than he'd expected. "Guns. I've been finding it more of a challenge than I'd initially thought."

Barry nodded. "I was wondering about how you were handling that end of things. Actually, I'm relieved to hear that you're having issues."

Bruce frowned.

"Trust me, I'd be more worried if you'd told me that you were taking to them like a duck takes to water. I saw a few soldiers like that. They... weren't people I'd have wanted to know if I'd still been stuck in the past after the war ended. Needing to kill is one thing. Liking it..."

"It's been a concern," Bruce admitted. "Sometimes, I wonder if I truly hate guns, or if I fear what I might become if I start using them."

"Been there, done that," Barry admitted. "Got the souvenir keychain to prove it."

The two men shared a smile. Barry's expression turned serious. "I know you don't usually like talking things out—unless that's another thing that's changed, I mean," he added, "but if it has changed, if it does, if you want to talk to someone who's been through a lot of what you're going through now, well... I'm only a couple of seconds away. You know that, right?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "I... don't believe that there's any need for you..." he glanced at Hal, who had been listening wide-eyed to the entire conversation, "...for either of you to maintain radio silence either," he said. "Of course, if it's your preference, I understand."

Hal and Barry exchanged a quick glance.

"Well," Hal said, "I guess I'll probably be around a bit more, if you don't mind. I mean, Helena is kind of cute." Something cold and wet and slippery landed on the back of his neck and began to travel down his back. He made a face. "I thought she'd run out of pineapple by now."

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'll get her another helping."

Selina giggled.

"She barely ate any," Bruce said with exaggerated innocence. "I need to be sure she's getting enough thiamin."

"Yes, dear," Selina said demurely, as Barry chuckled.

"Not to mention manganee—" He turned abruptly to the wall, shoulders shaking as he fought not to laugh.

"Very funny," Hal muttered. He looked at Helena. "How much is he paying you? I'll double it. OW!"

A plastic-coated spoon bounced off his face.

Bruce lost the fight. So did everyone else—including Hal.

* * *

Chiarello carefully placed his notes and recordings into a sturdy attaché case, locked it, and took it with him. He'd thought the interviews would never end, and he hadn't even started talking to Wayne's family, yet.

He sighed. It would be good to get home. He wished it didn't get dark so early in the winter time, though. He didn't much care for driving at night. He scooped up the second set of files and headed off to lock them in the vault, before he headed down to the parking garage.

He kept a careful eye on his surroundings as he took the long walk to the vault and then the shorter one to the elevator. The building was supposed to be secure—particularly with the new technology that Sawyer had authorized the JLA to install before the interviews had begun. She'd gone over the enhancements with him, but his eyes had started to glaze over when she'd started talking about "telepathic buffers." It didn't matter. He didn't care _how_ it all worked, so long as it did.

He took the elevator down to the parking garage and stepped out, car keys in hand, scanning carefully for anything out of the ordinary. He frowned. Something seemed off. His eyes narrowed, as his gaze panned over his surroundings.

There it was.

One of the fluorescent bulbs overhead was flickering. As he watched, it burned out altogether. There was another bulb several yards over that had apparently gone dark earlier. He made a mental note to talk to maintenance if it wasn't fixed by tomorrow and proceeded toward his parking spot, his footsteps making muffled echoes on the concrete floor. He was passing a parked sedan, when a loud bang startled him. Instinctively, he dove for cover.

That was when he heard a faint click and felt something dig into his shoulder blades. "The briefcase," a harsh voice whispered. "Now!"


	10. 9. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Chiarello makes a few interesting discoveries as his investigation continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Dungeonwriter for assistance in villainy and Xenith for some free legal advice! And thanks to Aiyokusama for advice about Chiarello's briefcase and some assistance with the parking garage scene!
> 
> "Shoes upon the Table" written by Willy Russell. Performed by Warwick Evans on the Blood Brothers Original Broadway Cast album (RCA Victor Broadway, 1993).

_How swiftly those who've made a pact_  
Can come to overlook the fact  
Or wish the reckoning be delayed…

_…you're walking on the pavement cracks._  
Don't know what's gonna come to pass. Now y'know the devil's got your number.  
Y'know he's gonna find y'.  
Y'know he's right behind y',  
He's starin' through your windows…

_—Willy Russell, "Shoes upon the Table"_

**Chapter 9—Reckoning**

Chiarello froze. He'd known that something like this could happen when he'd accepted this assignment. He wasn't entirely surprised by his current circumstances. If anything, he was annoyed at having been caught off-guard.

"Give me the case!" the voice repeated harshly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chiarello saw a heavyset man crouching next to him. There was a layer of mud on his boots, he noted.

"I won't ask again," the voice warned.

Chiarello sighed. "I'm lying on top of it," he said, keeping his tone even. "You're going to have to let me move."

The muzzle dug deeper into his shoulder blades for a moment. Then the pressure on his spine eased as the gun withdrew. "Okay. Keep it slow. Don't give me a reason to use this."

Chiarello nodded once. Then, carefully, he rolled onto his left side, so that his back was nearly touching the car parked next to him, hefted the briefcase, and passed it over.

The gunman kept his weapon trained as he reached over and grasped the handle. "Okay," he said. "Get up. Come on, move!"

"Gimme a sec," Chiarello muttered. "I'm not as young as I used to be—agh!"

"I'm warning you..."

Chiarello groaned. "Look, Mac, I'm sorry, but I can't get up that easy anymore." He fought to keep his voice level. The guy had the briefcase. There was no reason that he'd need a hostage on top of that. So, either his attacker thought that he had additional information, beyond what was in the briefcase...

_...Or he meant to kill him in a location that wasn't crawling with cops._

Chiarello forced himself to remain calm as he continued, "Give me a minute to get some feeling back in my leg so I can stand, will you?"

The gunman cursed loudly. "Hurry it up."

Chiarello nodded. Then, with a pained expression, he braced one hand on the dusty concrete floor and began to massage his lower leg with the other.

An instant later, an ear-splitting noise erupted from the briefcase. Simultaneously, the gunman shrieked, dropped both case and weapon, and frantically clutched his left hand in his right.

"Fast enough for you?" Chiarello asked, retrieving his case and picking up the fallen gun. He rose easily and pointed it at his unresisting former assailant. "Now where can I take you where you won't be able to pull something like this for a while, and where you can have plenty of time to think about how you got to this point? Oh, geez. Guess what building is right over our heads."

The other man swallowed hard as Chiarello nodded. "All right," the backgrounder continued. "Walk ahead of me to the elevator. You here alone?"

The other man frowned. "I..."

Chiarello drew a breath. "How many and where are they?"

"Just one and he's here," a light voice said. "Sorry if we startled you." Two costumed figures emerged from between the rows of parked cars. They were supporting a third person between them—a man with his hands cuffed before him.

Chiarello frowned. "Harrier. And... Ms. Martian, is it?"

The green-skinned girl smiled. "Yes, that's right, Sir."

"Stun-alarm briefcase?" Harrier asked, with a faint note of excitement in his voice.

Chiarello nodded. "I keep the remote in an ankle holster."

"Nice."

"What are you kids doing here, anyway?" The backgrounder demanded. "This area's off-limits to the public."

Harrier didn't bat an eye. "You're carrying some pretty sensitive information around. We're watching out for you." His eyes flickered to the injured man before them. "Not that you needed us tonight."

Chiarello's frown yielded to a reluctant smile. "Thanks... but it could have been a different story if you two hadn't taken care of the backup." He exhaled noisily. "Well, if you caught him, you might as well bring him upstairs with me. Come on."

"Detective Chiarello," Ms. Martian ventured, "you're no doubt aware that the threat to you isn't just physical. I'm not the only telepath on this planet."

"I realize that," he replied with a cough, "but I think you'll excuse me if I prefer not to have any of you people messing around with my head. That's assuming you're giving me a choice," he added pointedly.

The girl sighed. "I understand. And I wish I could say that 'of course' you have a choice, only... I realize..." Her eyes flickered to their two captives. "May we speak in your office afterward?"

Chiarello let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Just let me let my wife know I'm going to be late getting home. _Again..._ "

* * *

"Either of you want a coffee?" Chiarello asked, as they walked up the stairs to his office after depositing the two would-be abductors in a holding cell.

The teens politely declined. There was no further conversation until Chiarello ushered them into the room he'd been so sure he'd left behind for the day and closed the door behind them. "Okay," he said. "Talk. And if your suggestion involves giving you or anyone else access to my mind or memories, the answer's no."

Ms. Martian lowered her eyes. "You have to admit, it would make things easier."

"There are a lot of ideas that would make things 'easier'. That doesn't make them 'right'. Now do you have a Plan B, or are we done, here?"

The green-skinned girl hesitated. Then, slowly, she extended her hand and opened it to reveal a metal disc, threaded on a slender chain. "Keep it next to your skin at all times," she said. "It's a portable version of the telepathic jamming field that Martian Manhunter and I set up in this building. It's a temporary solution," she added.

"And I suppose a more permanent one would be wiping my mind of all sensitive information about you people? No dice. Besides, it wouldn't do much good. We keep recordings of all interviews on file."

"Yes," Ms. Martian nodded. "I know. Actually, a more permanent solution would be to teach you how to shield your thoughts. There are some basic techniques, which most people can learn—although I'd still recommend using the jammer as a precaution. Particularly while you're sleeping. It's waterproof," she added, as Chiarello reached for it. "And unbreakable. As is the chain."

Chiarello sighed. "And I suppose I'll need to keep wearing this for the rest of my life?"

"You said you didn't want the other options," Harrier spoke up.

"No. First of all, I don't know if I trust anyone to pick and choose which memories you're going to allow me to keep. Secondly, it seems like it wears off after a while anyway."

"Well," Ms. Martian said, "not when _I_ do it. And I don't need to erase those memories, so much as bury them." She leaned slightly forward as she spoke. "When you were a child," she began, "or even when you were older, you watched television, correct?"

"Um... I still do," Chiarello replied.

"Yes, but I suspect that the programs you watched were different. If I were to ask you now to give me a short synopsis of a specific episode that you watched some twenty years ago, you probably wouldn't be able to, right?"

"Depends on the episode, but I'll give you that point, for the sake of argument."

"Thank you," Ms. Martian smiled. "Now suppose that I were to start out by saying," she tilted her head to one side, "Hey! Remember that one when the kids got worried because the dog was eating cat food?"

Harrier's hand flew to his mouth as he coughed, but not before Chiarello saw his grin.

Ms. Martian elbowed her teammate in the ribs. "You might not remember that scene," she continued, "or think about it for years. But when someone brings it up, the memory will surface. What I propose to do would be similar, but I would take the further precaution of anchoring those memories to a specific location, namely this building. In other words, within these walls, if someone were to inquire of you regarding our... internal affairs, the relevant memories would be accessible to you. It would still be to your discretion what you choose to disclose." She sighed. "And that is the major drawback: I can't use this technique on everyone. And I won't use it on an unwilling party. Should you, of your own volition, choose to divulge your findings, the safeguards that I'm proposing will not prevent you from faxing your interview transcripts to the _Gotham Post_ , or... or talking to unauthorized personnel within these walls. Or reviewing your notes off-site, for that matter—although the instant that you put them away, you will also be putting their contents out of your mind. This technique is meant to protect you from casual telepathic probes when you're in an unshielded area—by keeping that specific knowledge buried in your memories. It's somewhat akin to hiding a rare book among an assortment of other volumes in a bookcase."

Chiarello's lower lip jutted out as he considered her words. "I'll take it under advisement," he said finally, as he slipped the jammer chain over his head and then tucked the disc inside his shirt. "Thanks. Is that all for now?"

Harrier and Ms. Martian looked at one another and then back to the detective. Both nodded.

"Right." He got up. "Then I'll walk you out. Wait. Can I drop you somewhere?"

Harrier shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but we have our own transportation."

"Lucky you. So... you've been hanging around for the last couple of days, keeping an eye out?"

"Well, not us personally," Harrier said, as he and Ms. Martian followed Chiarello into the hallway, "but yes," he continued while the detective locked the office door behind them, "some of us have been keeping you under surveillance."

"I suppose I would resent that," Chiarello rumbled, "if I were too pigheaded to realize that if you hadn't been there a few minutes ago, I probably wouldn't be here now." He smiled. "You're planning on tailing my car, too?"

The two Teen Titans exchanged a guilty look. "Well, until the Aparo. Then..." Harrier frowned, "is it Superman tonight?"

"Hawkman. Unless he was called away, in which case, yes, Superman will take over."

"I'm honored." He sighed. "Fine. Go on and do what you have to. I won't try to lose you. Not tonight, anyway."

Ms. Martian laughed. "Thank you, Detective. Enjoy your drive."

* * *

Hal left after supper. Bruce waited until Selina went to put Helena to bed before motioning to Barry to accompany him down to the cave.

"Um..." Barry cleared his throat. "Look, about—"

"If you're going to apologize for not coming to visit earlier," Bruce held up a hand, "don't. I wouldn't have been amenable in Arkham. And afterwards," he shook his head, "it's unlikely that I would have been... comfortable... reconnecting."

Barry nodded slowly. "I guess I can understand that. I mean, not that it's exactly the same thing," he continued, "but I think I can _kinda_ relate to some of that. After I came back, let's just say it was a readjustment. So many people I used to know seemed... different. And I wasn't sure if they'd changed, or I had, or if having been away for so long, my memories were playing tricks on me." He sighed. "There was a point when I was spending most of my workday just holed up in the crime lab and then racing to get home so I could shut myself up with a few good books and try to pretend time hadn't marched on without me." He shook his head. "Sometimes, it was like I could just slip back into the old routine... and then something stupid would remind me that I'd lost out on a few years. No more VHS tapes, or cassettes," he shook his head. "And when did cell phones get so... tiny?"

Bruce nodded. "And people expect you to be able to pick up the pieces and move on, and when you don't, they try to hide their disappointment, but..."

"...when you do, they can't let it pass without a comment on how well you're coping."

Bruce sighed. "They mean well."

"Of course."

They shared a fleeting smile. Bruce took a deep breath. "I... could use some insight," he admitted. "I'm trying to steel myself to what lies ahead if I manage to pass these... preliminaries. Jim and Dick have been open about their experiences, but yours are a bit more recent. I was wondering..."

Barry grinned, glad to be back on easier ground. "Sure. What did you want to know?"

* * *

Barbara sighed.

"Trouble?" Dick asked. "Or just tired?" Wally and Linda had been gone for an hour, but Barbara had spent the better part of the day cooking in preparation.

She looked away from her monitors and gave Dick a weary smile. "A bit of both, I think. Someone made an attempt on Chiarello, earlier. Luckily, Tim and M'Gann were in place, but now he knows we're watching."

Dick frowned. "How'd he take it?"

"Well, he's not thrilled about it, but he understands. Actually," Barbara smiled, "Tim said he was carrying a booby-trapped attaché case. Remote-controlled stun-alarm, Kevlar-exterior... it's the kind of thing we should have ordered for him."

Dick let out a low whistle. "Glad to know someone's taking this seriously. I wonder if GCPD footed the bill for it or he paid out of pocket. Those things don't come cheap."

Barbara nodded. "We can't watch out for him forever. And... He's married. One daughter—she's a sophomore at Ann Arbor."

"She's probably safer there," Dick nodded. "Okay."

"Where are you going?"

Dick was already moving toward the door, his expression grim. "Off to suit up. Then I'm going to pay a visit to GCPD holding and find out how those guys knew what Chiarello had in his briefcase. Because somehow, I don't think he's been talking about how he's spent the last couple of days to very many people, so I want to know who found out, and who else they might've told." He doubled back, features softening for a moment as his lips found hers. Then he was speeding out the door with a hasty "Don't wait up," as he crossed the threshold.

* * *

In the privacy of his den, Chiarello opened his briefcase. Noreen was in the dining room, engaged in a high-stakes conference call with a team of investors in Seoul and was unlikely to disturb him for a while. Besides, she always knocked first.

He brought his hand up to the base of his neck and felt the outline of the pendant beneath the fabric of his shirt. He sighed, debating whether he ought to suggest that Noreen take a week or two and go to South Korea to close whatever deal she was trying to make in person. She'd have questions that he wouldn't be able to answer, but she'd do it. She knew that in his line of work, he had a tendency to dig up secrets that might be safer left buried.

There was a tentative tap on his window. Chiarello took a breath and pushed aside the shade. He wasn't surprised to see who it was. He raised the glass. "You're handling my home security?" He asked the cowled figure standing outside.

Batman shook his head. "Sorry, no. But you are under protection."

"Yeah, I gathered that earlier," he remarked. "So what can I do for you?"

"Just thought you might want to know: those guys who were waiting for you in the garage? Believe it or not, it had nothing to do with Bruce. "

Chiarello raised his eyebrows. "Do tell?"

As Batman opened his mouth to speak, Chiarello held up a hand. "Look, I have neighbors, and while they're not normally nosy, I'm not sure I'd want to explain what you're doing in my backyard. Or if I could," he added in an undertone. "You want to come in?"

Batman hesitated. He appeared to come to a decision. "You're here alone?"

"No, my wife is here. That a problem?"

Batman shook his head. "It shouldn't be. I'll come around to the front."

* * *

"The first thing you should know," Batman said, almost before he'd come past the vestibule, "is that it had absolutely nothing to do with anybody's secrets."

"Really?" Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "What then?" He gestured to the cowled figure to follow him as he padded back to the den. Batman did so, waiting until they were both in the dark-paneled room with the door closed before he spoke.

"Ever heard of a guy named Brick, aka Danny Brickwell?"

The detective frowned. "Mobster, yeah. But he's out on the West Coast, isn't he?"

Batman nodded. "Star City. Two months ago, one of his lieutenants took out a rival boss. From what those guys in holding told me, Brick sent the guy to Gotham to lie low until things blow over. He's got a couple of connections here. One of them spotted Green Arrow in town—"

"—and thought he was here about Brick's man," Chiarello nodded. "It makes sense." He smiled. "So I can breathe easier for a day or two, at least until the media gets wind of this. And they will."

"I know," Batman's mouth was set in a grim line. "We're keeping an eye on the situation." His lips twitched. "As you probably figured out tonight."

"Yeah, but for how long?"

"There are a lot of us, Detective Chiarello. Some of us aren't as active or high-profile as we used to be. While we can't be everywhere at all times, we can come close." He smiled. "And I suspect that your performance earlier wasn't a one-off. You may not need our assistance."

Chiarello grunted. "As long as you're here, I may as well save myself a phone call. You free for an interview on Sunday afternoon around two o'clock?"

Batman considered. "I'll let you know if there are any conflicts, but that should be doable." He smiled. "Or you can dig up your notes from five years ago. From what I recall, they should be pretty thorough."

Chiarello's laugh was closer to a bark. "First, that was about you, not your dad. Second? Do you mean to tell me that you're the same person you were five years ago? I don't think so."

The smile vanished "Point."

"Thanks for stopping by," Chiarello said formally. "If you'd like some free advice? If it turns out you do have plans for Sunday, change them. Your father should be coming out of his psych eval, shortly after I aim to finish our session. You might want to stick around until he's done."

Batman's lips parted slightly in surprise. An instant later, his composure returned. "Thanks. For the tip. I can see myself out."

"Nah, I'll walk you to the door, Batman. Thanks for stopping by."

As they were halfway down the hall, the dining room door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped out. "Maury, is someone he...?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes grew wide. "Um..."

"Uh..." Chiarello coughed, as he tried to sound casual. "Batman just had to stop by for a minute. Police business."

Batman inclined his head. "Sorry if we disturbed you."

"N-no," Noreen Chiarello stammered. "Not at all." She shot her husband a look. "I... Did Maury offer you a cup of coffee, because—"

"Not necessary," he said, dropping his usual gravelly tones. "I was just leaving. Detective." He ducked his head. "Ma'am." As Chiarello opened the front door for him, Batman whispered, "Next time, either tell her first, or show me to a window. Preferably second-story."

* * *

After his guest had gone, Chiarello went back to his notes. He hadn't had a chance to respond to Drake's message. Apparently, the guy was backpacking across Europe and didn't have easy access to a phone, but in his voice mail message, he'd indicated that he'd try to set something up. He'd left an email address, too. Chiarello sighed. He preferred face-to-face contact, but time was of the essence with Wayne's case. He considered. With all of the other people he needed to talk to, was it that essential that he interview Tim Drake?

He went over his notes. Drake had achieved a certain level of notoriety some years back by sneaking into Gotham during the No Man's Land. Chiarello snorted. He wondered how the kid had managed to get past the armed troops, the guarded bridges, and the mines in the river. Wayne had filed for guardianship after Drake's father had died... He frowned. That had been shortly after the mob war. He rifled through the file photos and his eye fell on a newspaper clipping. Drake had been at the funeral of a classmate shot at the beginning of that incident. Aquista's kid. He shook his head. From the photo, it didn't look like any of her other classmates had shown up. Interesting. It looked like Drake had been close to her. He checked the date of the clipping and shook his head. Darla Aquista's funeral had been exactly one week before the death of Jack Drake. To have lost a girlfriend and a father so close together...

Chiarello froze. _And Drake had moved to Bludhaven less than a month later_. He chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully, remembering what Wayne had told him about Harrier, that night at the bar. And if Harrier and Robin were the same person, and Harrier had also lost his father and his girlfriend and...

He sat unmoving for several long moments, as the evidence whirled through his mind and slowly dropped into place. Then he reached for the message pad on which he'd written the email address that Drake had given him and moved his mouse to banish the screensaver.

_Enjoy your trip_ , he typed into the message text box. _I think I've just about figured out everything I need to. Should that change, I'll be in touch._

* * *

"Have a seat, Jim," Chiarello directed. "Thanks for coming by."

The former police commissioner settled into the padded chair with a sigh. "I'd say it was my pleasure, but, I think I told you a long time ago in the break-room that I hated being interviewed. It hasn't changed."

Chiarello chuckled. "I'll try to keep it as painless as possible. Guess the two of you have a history," he said. "I mean... you worked with the guy for over a decade and now you've moved into manor, I think?"

"Caretaker's cottage, actually."

"Ah, I see. So you're close with him."

"Yes."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Even though he operates outside the law—or did for a number of years."

Gordon nodded. "You can arguably say the same for any member of the Justice League. Look, you remember what the law was like when I started with GCPD. Hell, if I hadn't trusted him, I doubt I'd be here talking to you now. I'd have either made a few compromises I couldn't live with or... let's just say, Loeb would have made it look like an accident."

"I told you to try for the FBI," Chiarello grinned.

"And I told you, 'Not in this lifetime,'" Jim smiled back. "Police work is in my family's blood and has been for over a century. I'm not even the first 'Commissioner James Gordon'—that would have been my father in Lakeside."

"Lakeside?" Chiarello asked blankly.

"Little town in upstate New York. He moved to Chicago after the war and took an academy position." He shook his head. "Joining the feds just never entered my mind. Besides, no matter how prudent that move might have been, it still would've felt like abandoning Gotham." Jim smiled again. "I think that's probably why Batman and I connected. With his money, and with what this place took from him, he could've abandoned the city years ago. But he stuck with it because he felt he could make a difference. And he was right. He didn't just attack the criminals we couldn't touch. His family built this city up. He continued that legacy. And after the earthquake, he rebuilt it from the ground up."

Chiarello made a notation on his pad. "Why do you think he wants to join us?"

Jim sighed. "You might say it's because Sawyer's twisting his arm—and that's probably why he's jumping through all of your hoops now, instead of backing out and doing things his way. The truth is, the sole reason that he does what he does is because of what this city took from him."

"His parents."

Jim nodded. "He told me once that he wanted to make Gotham a place where no other child would have to see his loved ones murdered in front of him. So... when it comes to urban renewal, his money is at the forefront. When it comes to philanthropy, he's there. When it comes to getting crime off the streets, he's doing that too. Has done it for years, and the city's better for it. If you ask me, what he's doing now isn't the least bit incompatible with his long-term goal."

"Maybe," Chiarello said. "There is the matter of the brutality of his approach. At least in the past. Shouldn't we be concerned about a reoccurrence? The press would be all over that."

"He's had anger issues," Jim nodded. "He's been working on them for over a year and a half."

"I know he attacked you when he was drugged. Is it possible that the drug didn't 'make him violent' so much as weaken his control?" Seeing Jim's stony expression, he continued, "Look. If a person commits murder while drunk or drugged, the judge doesn't throw the case out. It may mean a difference of degree: Murder One to Two or Two to Manslaughter. But 'too drunk to know what he was doing' isn't normally grounds for acquittal."

"Well, for starters," Jim shot back, "he didn't kill me. Second, he didn't take the drug voluntarily." He took a deep breath. "I'm not stupid, Maury. I get why you're concerned about this, but I think maybe you'd be better off checking the records for sentences meted out to individuals committing crimes under the influence of Scarecrow's fear toxin or Poison Ivy's pheromones. The law treats those people as victims, and rightly so. If Bruce had knowingly taken the Desoxyn, I'd agree with you. He didn't."

Chiarello nodded slowly. "Since his release, have you ever seen him out of control?"

Jim shook his head. "Angry, yes. But not out of control."

"Angry. What about?"

Jim sighed. "He's used to being in control—of himself and of a given situation. It took him a while to accept that, when it came to the terms of his release, he wasn't—isn't. I'd say, more than anything, it's been the restrictions he's had to abide by."

"Mmm," Chiarello made another notation. "Have you seen him attempt to circumvent them?"

"No. I've seen him question them. I know he's asked me about whether a particular action would be considered a violation of those restrictions."

"Can you give me a f'r'instance?"

Jim nodded. "Shortly after his release, he decided to tackle a bit of gardening. Now, as you'd expect, given that nobody had attended to the grounds for over two years, it was something of a jungle. We weren't sure it was safe to use a lawnmower, seeing as the weeds were waist-high in some spots, and we had no idea what sort of roots or rocks might be under them. Bruce asked me whether there was any restriction on his using a machete to clear a path."

"Ah," Chiarello leaned back. "At this point, he'd been out how long?"

Jim thought back. "Less than a week. He'd just gone back to the manor."

"So, you're saying that right from the start, he was trying to comply with the restrictions."

"Exactly."

"Were there any violations?"

Jim considered. "Not that I witnessed, no. I'm not saying he didn't _want_ to. There were plenty of times when it was obvious that the rules were chafing him. The truth is, if he had decided to flout them, I couldn't have done anything to stop him other than file a report after the fact." He gestured to the cane that rested against the arm of his chair. "But he knows how to channel his anger. I guess that, in the past, he saved it for his night activities—and even then, when he cut loose, he kept control. These last few months, he's had other outlets: yoga, gardening, exercise. Plus, he's still seeing his therapist."

"So if you were in my place, you'd recommend hiring him?"

Jim smiled. "Absolutely."

* * *

"So, Chiarello repeated dubiously, "you had no idea that he was Batman?"

Lucius Fox sighed. "It sounds incredible, I know, but Bruce always did put on a good act. And even though I saw through it, I have to say that it never seriously occurred to me that he could be Batman."

Chiarello frowned. "I don't mean to doubt your word," he said, "but surely the technology that Batman uses struck you as familiar?"

"Of course," Lucius nodded. "But here's the thing: PMWE doesn't have a monopoly on technological innovation. I wish we did; our profits would be a good deal higher. Generally, we're involved in a race to get our latest product through testing, because we know that if we wait a month... a week... a day, then LexCorp or Queen Industries will get there first. I'd be frankly more surprised to hear that PMWE was the only company developing a certain technology at any given time. Not to mention that you're overlooking something."

"Really?"

Lucius nodded again. "How many encounters do you think I—or most other people of Gotham who were neither criminals nor police personnel—actually had with Batman? He's saved my life on more than one occasion, yes, but that doesn't mean that I had the opportunity to look at his suit and think, 'Wait... isn't that the lightweight Kevlar that we patented last fall?' or 'Aren't those night-vision goggles our prototype?'" He smiled. "Yes, a lot of WE's technology did find its way to Batman—but it wasn't as though I was ever close enough to identify it. Plus, what I did see on the rare occasions when I was face-to-face with him? If it _was_ ours—and, granted, it probably was—he modified it so it was less recognizable."

"Ah," Chiarello nodded. "Now, there is one thing that does concern me. When Wayne is doing something he wants to, it's pretty clear to me that he's focused on the goal. But when it's something he's not fond of, is it fair to say that he'll find a way to evade his responsibilities?"

Lucius sighed. "How can I answer that?" he asked. "I guess, if you believe that a man without a business degree, who inherited his seat on the board but isn't fully attuned to every aspect of the company, should nevertheless be compelled to prove his dedication by running the company, even if he runs it into the ground, you can make a case for it. What you have to understand is that the company is important to Bruce, not for its net worth, but because it comes to him from his parents. He sees it as a legacy to be protected. And to that end, he chose to appoint someone qualified to run the company in his stead."

"But couldn't he have gotten the qualifications on his own, had he gone a different route?"

"It's possible," Lucius admitted. "But as you might be aware, his parents' legacy was more than just a corporation. The Waynes built Gotham." He smiled. "I'll tell you two things you may or may not already know about Bruce. One, he hates public speaking. Two, he hates politics. Come to think of it," he frowned, "I imagine that, for all its legal problems, the vigilante approach does give him the advantage of cutting through a lot of red tape without having to make speeches or play ball. Sorry. Didn't mean to digress." He shook his head, smiling now.

"What I'm trying to say," he continued, "is that when the Senate was debating whether to declare Gotham a No Man's Land, Bruce _didn't_ delegate. He knew that a professional lobbyist wouldn't have the same... passion for the cause. He hates politics. He hates making speeches. But he played politics and he made those speeches because there wasn't anyone else. And when it didn't work, he kept fighting. He had me working on the outside and," he hesitated for a moment. "Well, now we know that he was working on the inside. And when the No Man's Land was over, he had WE—not PMWE, by the way—spearheading the rebuild." Lucius took a deep breath. "Mr. Wayne knows that you get more accomplished when you have the most qualified people in key positions. Knowing what I know now, it's fair to say that, most of the time, he _is_ —or was—the most qualified person. But not to steer a multinational corporation. Oh, if all he were interested in doing was siphoning off the profits and financing his personal extra-curriculars, he could probably keep it going for a few years. But he never intended WE to be his toy. He never lost sight of the knowledge that poor judgment on his part could translate into budget cuts and job losses. And he had no problem admitting that he wasn't qualified to administer the company on his own, but then bring in people who were."

"Like yourself."

Lucius nodded slowly. "I'm not the only one. And I'll tell you something else: underneath that clueless façade, Bruce set out to make himself aware of what was going on. Nobody as bored with the company as he pretended to be would ask so many questions. And yes, he did ask them in a vague, offhand manner, but he always hung around for the answer. And he remembered it." Lucius took a deep breath. "Not long ago, he needed some data. It wasn't classified information," Lucius smiled. "Just some old records we had in our archives that I'd mentioned to him at one point. That was some years ago, but he knew exactly where those records were kept."

"Did he say what he wanted it for?"

Lucius frowned. "You know, thinking back... I don't believe he ever did specify. I think Dick mentioned that he was reviewing some cold cases for your offices?"

Chiarello grunted. "Moving right along...

* * *

"How did you meet him?"

Captain Montoya gave him a rueful smile. "I was in Commissioner Gordon's office. He showed up at the window."

Chiarello chuckled. "Must've made your night."

"I almost shot him."

"How'd he take that?"

"Pretty well," Montoya admitted, "given the circumstances."

"He's been helping you with some of our unsolvables, right?"

Montoya nodded. "I thought he could probably use the mental exercise, so I got Sawyer to sign off on it. Before his release, we were able to close the books on over a dozen."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Without access to a computer." It wasn't phrased as question. When Montoya nodded again, he let out a slow breath. "That's pretty impressive. Not just that he solved them without the usual resources—that we didn't, even with those resources. Okay. Obviously, he can follow the evidence, even if the trail's faint. What concerns me more is his tendency to use force. I mean, off the record, Captain, we all know that some perps deserve it, and sometimes, I'd like to hang a freaking medal on the guys dishing it out. Doesn't change the fact that if he starts beating up on people in custody, we're going to have a lot of explaining to do. We know he can dish it out. Can he rein it in?"

"I think so," Montoya said. "After the quake, a lot of inmates escaped from both Arkham and Blackgate. We had our hands full rounding them up. Batman was helping, of course. Oddly enough, so was Two-Face. Or maybe, it wasn't so odd. His coin had been coming up unscarred for a while."

"Excuse me. You said, Two-Face was helping you round up escapees?"

"What?" Montoya blinked. "Oh! No, no, he was helping us dig survivors out of the wreckage. Anyway, Batman swooped down and was ready to haul him back."

"How much force did he use?"

"Minimal. Harvey… Two-Face didn't put up more than a token resistance. Actually, I… I convinced him to let him go."

Chiarello leaned forward. "You convinced Batman to release Two-Face?"

"We needed every pair of hands we could get. And… Harvey saved my brother. Batman asked me if I was prepared to vouch for Two-Face. When I said I was, he released him."

"Have you ever seen him lose control?"

Montoya considered. "I don't think I have. I've seen him get scary-angry, but he's always got it reined in. Sometimes, he lets something slip, and it looks like he's about to lose it… but I think even that's part of the act." She grinned. "Scares the hell out of the perps, I can tell you. It's like, "Oh hell. If he's like this when he's just angry, what happens if I really tick him off?"

"Which would be the general idea."

"That's right."

"Do you have any concerns about accepting his application?"

"None whatsoever."

"Tell me more about the No Man's Land."

* * *

Bruce wasn't surprised when Chiarello called the manor at five o'clock. By five-thirty, he was in his car and driving toward GCPD.

At five-forty, the radio in Detective Barry Allen's squad car crackled to life.

"Car 31, do you read? Over."

Barry glanced at the officer sitting beside him. "31 here. Go ahead, Dispatch. Over."

"What's your 20, 31?"

Barry hesitated. "Renfield Heights?" he whispered to his new partner, trying to remember the guy's surname. Something with a "D" that was also a first name... David? Dennis?

The other officer, _Daniel! That was it!_ Daniel nodded. Barry relayed that to the radio.

"Head on over to Battergate, 31. Someone just phoned in a tip on a 10-14 in the neighborhood. Check it out. Over."

_A prowler,_ Barry translated with a nod. He'd studied the map thoroughly before heading out with Daniel, concentrating his efforts on a neighborhood that was less than five minutes away from where he really needed to be—close enough to be the nearest car in the vicinity when False Face made his move, but far enough away that False Face wouldn't spot their black-and-white and possibly be scared off. "Roger that, Dispatch. We're on our way. Over."

Sgt. Daniel frowned. "It must be a quiet evening," he said. "We don't usually get called in before a crime's actually in progress."

Barry turned left. "Guess it's some perp's unlucky night, then," he remarked easily. _And it's a good thing that Oracle can hijack Police Band and get the right message out at the right time—or getting into Battergate without making my partner suspicious would be a lot harder!_

* * *

False Face checked the address once more and turned his car onto Wrightson Way. He frowned. The south side of the street had signs prohibiting weekend parking. There was no unoccupied spot on the north side. With a sigh, he continued to the end of the street, turned the corner slowly, and looked for another place to park. He finally found one nearly three blocks away. He sighed. Yes, Paxton had told him to make sure that he was spotted, and he realized full well that the more people who saw Bruce Wayne walking down the street, the better; but it was a cold night and he didn't relish the trek.

His jaw set. It was a simple assignment. Appear outside the woman's window, be seen, and go home. Five thousand dollars for what—even with the walk from his car—amounted to a half-hour's work, maximum. He had no real cause for complaint. He knew…

"…Wayne? Excuse me? Sir?"

Startled, False Face looked up, registering blue eyes and the golden gleam of a police detective's shield. "Pardon?"

"I thought I recognized you, Mr. Wayne," the detective smiled affably. "Out for a walk?"

"Um…" False Face strove to sound casual. "Uh… yes. Yes, I am. It's a quiet night."

The detective nodded. "That it is. Um… Mr. Wayne, maybe you didn't realize it, but you appear to have come within 500 feet of number 68 Wrightson Way." His tone was apologetic. "I'm afraid you're currently in violation of the terms of your restraining order."

False Face opened his mouth to protest, but the officer barrelled on.

"Look, I'm sure it was just an oversight on your part, so suppose we just let this go with a warning. If you turn around now, we can pretend this didn't happen." He glanced at the uniformed officer standing a half-pace behind him. "Sound good to you, Sergeant?"

The sergeant smiled. "Absolutely."

"But…"

The detective draped a friendly arm across his shoulders. "Let me walk you out of range, sir. Just so you're aware of the demarcation line. Come on," he said, ignoring False Face's protests and steering him back the way he'd come.

"Okay," the detective said, as they neared the corner. "That fire hydrant is about 500 feet away. Stay on the other side of it and you'll be fine. Got it?"

False Face forced himself to smile.

"Have a good night, Mr. Wayne."

As the detective headed back to his partner, False Face's smile died. He started walking slowly back toward his car. At the end of the block, though, instead of continuing straight, he turned right—hoping to approach the Ryerson house from the west this time. He turned onto Wrightson, but he'd only passed by five houses when he heard the officer's voice calling, once more.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne!"

False Face froze.

"This tree?" The detective drew his attention to an oak that he'd just passed. "That's the 500-foot boundary on this side. In case you were wondering."

"I'll remember that," False Face said, trying to sound vague. "Thank you."

"Not at all."

Under the watchful gaze of both officers, False Face retraced his steps. Now he really did need to go to his car—so that he could, in relative quiet and privacy, let Paxton know there was a problem.

* * *

"I'm afraid there's been a snag, Les," False Face said with a helpless laugh. "Yes, it appears that the police are watching the Ryerson house tonight. Silly, I know, but I don't see how I can get onto the property without getting myself arrested." He chuckled. "Another night, then?"

Paxton remembered that he'd always _hated_ Bruce's cluelessness in the boardroom. Especially that stupid, inane laugh—just barely better than a giggle. The fact that False Face was able to replicate it so precisely didn't help his mood. "I was under the impression that I was dealing with a professional," he said icily. "Our contract stipulated that you would be at the Ryerson house at seven. It is now six fifty-five. Therefore, I expect you to fulfill your obligation and be at that house, as directed, within the next five minutes."

False Face sucked in his breath, stung to the quick. "It's because I'm a professional," he retorted in his own voice, "that I know that this isn't going to work. Not tonight, with the police watching. I could try again in an hour or so—"

"An hour would be too late." Paxton insisted. "Very well. I'll add another thousand to what we agreed on."

"That's nice to hear," False Face said, "but I'd prefer you paid for a good attorney. If I approach that house again, there's an excellent chance I'm going to need one."

There was a moment's silence. Then Paxton spoke again. "Perhaps you'd be able to evade the police if you were to disguise yourself as a different individual, and then become Wayne once you've safely passed them."

False Face shook his head in disbelief. Did this man know _nothing_? "Mr. Paxton," he said, enunciating each word distinctly, "you told me to make myself look so much like Wayne, his own parents wouldn't know which one was which. That's what you got. If you want me to just put on a non-descript face, yes, I can do that, too. But once I change my face, it's not so easy to restore the Wayne look. You don't appear to realize that there's more to it than putting on a wig and an expensive suit. It took me over three hours to apply the necessary makeup and latex prosthetics. I can't very well put them back on again outdoors, in the dark, in five minutes or less. You wanted an expert? I'm giving you expert advice. The conditions are wrong tonight. If you're going to insist that I try, regardless, then I'll require payment commensurate with the risk."

Paxton drew his breath in sharply. "Six thousand dollars, plus the services of an attorney."

"Six thousand dollars," False Face replied, "the services of an attorney, and two hundred dollars for every day I spend in holding awaiting a trial. If the trial goes against me, it'll be an extra one thousand dollars for every week I spend behind bars."

"Are you mad?"

"Noooooo," False Face drew out the syllable. "That would be _Clayface_. I'm just taking out a bit of insurance—to make sure that you look out for my best interests and don't see me as another loose end to eliminate. After all, you wouldn't want me to worry that I was being set up to get arrested and then have you deny all knowledge of my actions," he added ingenuously, "would you?"

"Of course not," Paxton said irritably. "Fine. I'll agree to those terms. If complications ensue, stay in character for as long as you can."

"One other thing, Mr. Paxton," False Face added. "Before I set out tonight, I left a complete description of my activities, documented with dates, times, meetings, and so on and so forth with a couple of people I know. In the event that I do not return home safely this evening, and that you fail to live up to the terms of this agreement, a single phone call from me is all it will take to ensure that copies of our correspondence will be sent to the media… and, to certain," he coughed, "associates of mine who really don't like it when old money and old power think that they can hire people like me to do their dirty work and then leave us high and dry when the crunch comes."

"How dare you?" Paxton blustered. "Let me assure you that I'm a man of my word, and there are _many_ people out there who can vouch for my integrity."

"Even if it should come to light that you're hiring a double to destroy one of your former colleagues? I must have missed the wellspring of support _he_ engendered a few years back when his activities came to light. Ah, but maybe you're different. And in any case, I do apologize if I offended you just now. I only wanted you to be clear on where things stand, on the off chance that expert legal advice were to suggest that you compromise your… integrity. Think of it as encouragement to… oh, let's say, 'do the right thing,' hmmm?"

"I quite understand," Paxton said stonily. "Now get over to the Ryerson house."

* * *

Sgt. Daniel glanced at his partner. "It's been two minutes since the last time you looked at your watch," he said. "Tops. Why are we still here?"

"Call it a hunch, Sergeant," Barry replied. He noted with satisfaction that the tracer he'd stuck on False Face earlier was moving again. He was around the block, headed east on foot. Barry sighed and began walking toward the corner. All at once he stopped. The tracer wasn't heading east anymore, but north. Barry smiled. So he was trying to cut across the backyards. He looked at Daniel.

"You see that?" he asked, craning his head as though trying to see behind the house that he was passing.

"What?"

Barry's voice turned grim. "Maybe nothing. But I think I just saw someone trying to scale a back fence. And Wayne seemed pretty intent on getting to number 68 before."

"That bugs me," Daniel replied, falling into step behind Barry. "I mean, up to now, Wayne's pretty much kept his head down. Why pull something like this now? I mean…" He let his voice trail off.

Barry nodded. "I've heard the talk around the water cooler," he admitted. "I agree it makes no sense. But you saw him. Unless you have a better explanation?"

Daniel laughed. "In this city? Theoretically, it could be anything from extortion to mind control, but without proof…"

"Yeah. Better take him downtown and let his lawyer deal with it. Come on."

The two officers eased open the gate to the yard in time to see a shadowy figure drop heavily over the fence. He landed in an ungainly half-crouch and immediately fell backwards. With a grunt, the figure rose and advanced toward the house. Instead of attempting to enter the darkened kitchen, the figure headed for the gate—and directly into the arms of the two police officers.

"Sorry about this, Mr. Wayne," Barry said, as he pinned False Face against the side of the house and manacled his wrists behind his back, while Daniel began informing him of his Miranda rights.

"You have the right to remain silent…"

* * *

"Coffee?" Chiarello asked solicitously.

Bruce shook his head automatically. "No tha—" A coughing fit overtook him. "Actually," he managed, "water would be appreciated."

"Take it easy," the backgrounder said, as he walked briskly out of the office. He returned a moment later with a conical paper cup. "You okay?"

Bruce nodded. "My throat was dry."

"I don't doubt it." Chiarello's lips twitched. "Okay, now, that issue you were mentioning last time with the super-steroid…"

"Venom," Bruce supplied.

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask—" The phone on his desk rang, breaking into their conversation. Chiarello held up a hand. "Hang on till it rings to voice mail," he said.

The phone rang three times and stopped. Chiarello shrugged. "Okay, so—"

The phone rang again. Chiarello exhaled through his teeth. "Excuse me," he said, and picked up the phone. "I'm in conference," he snapped into the receiver. "What?" He listened for a moment. "Are you seri—He's sitting across from me right now. Yeah, we're on our way." He replaced the phone and looked across his desk at Bruce. "Have you got an evil twin?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Not that I know of."

Chiarello nodded curtly. "Roll up your sleeves."

"I beg your pardon?"

"On your application, you described a number of scars. I'd like to verify a few of them now before I get to see two people trying to denounce each other as imposters. And since I can check your forearms easily enough, let's start there."

Without another word of protest, Bruce shed his suit jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of his long-sleeved dress shirt, and pushed them back. Chiarello inspected the flesh briefly and nodded. "Okay, grab your jacket and let's head downstairs."

* * *

"Well?" Chiarello demanded. "What's been done so far?"

"He's been booked for TRO violation. We've run his prints, should get them back in 48 hours or so…" the other officer's voice trailed off as he stared at Bruce. "The two of you've been together all this time?"

Chiarello's amusement was clear. "Since about six this evening. He phone anyone, yet?"

The officer nodded. "Figured you'd want to have a look at the number," he said. "The other party didn't pick up and he didn't leave a message."

"Understood." Chiarello accepted the paper that the officer held out to him. "I'll see if I can figure out who this belongs to." He turned to Bruce. "Out of curiosity, who would your one call be to?"

Bruce considered. "My attorney," he replied, "if only because my family would probably be aware of my circumstances before I arrived here."

"Somehow," Chiarello said glancing at the page. "I'm not surpr—I take it back," he said, letting out a low whistle.

"What?"

Chiarello reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "It matches," he said as he unfolded it. "Your evil twin was calling the private cell phone of PMWE's chief financial officer." His voice was grim. "Lester Paxton."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I do realize that Tim and Darla weren't a couple. Chiarello is basing his conclusions on the information that he has available to him, and coming up with the right answers—even if he is zeroing in on the wrong deceased girlfriend.


	11. 10. Spinning Down Round Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chiarello is just about done with interviewing Bruce's colleagues. Now he's starting on family! Meanwhile, Bruce proceeds to the psych exam, as Paxton's schemes start to fall apart for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! References to Batman: Dark Victory by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale (1999-2000). I'm making a couple of tweaks, if only because there's support elsewhere in canon for them.
> 
> "Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)" written by Gary Allen, Hillary Lindsey and Matt Warren. Recorded by Gary Allen (MCA Nashville, 2012).
> 
> Squicks/Triggers: Implied uncomfortable power dynamics

_I saw you standing in the middle of the thunder and lightning,_  
I know you're feelin' like you just can't win but you're tryin',  
It's hard to keep on keepin' on when you're bein' pushed around,  
Don't even know which way is up, just keep spinnin' down, round, down…

— _Gary Allen, Hilary Lindsey, Matt Warren: Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)_

**Chapter 10—Spinning Down Round Down**

Chiarello watched Bruce closely, gauging his reaction.

For his part, Bruce didn't have to hide his surprise. He would have laid money on False Face calling his lawyer. He tensed when Chiarello took his arm.

"Let's head back to my office," he said, with a frown. "We have a few more questions to go over."

Bruce followed with a mental sigh.

Chiarello waited until the door closed behind them before asking, "What does the cost of a good impersonator run to, these days?"

Bruce frowned. "I'm not sure."

"Oh, come on," Chiarello coaxed. "You mean you've never needed to be in two places at once?"

"It's been necessary," Bruce admitted, refusing to rise to the bait, "but it's always been a good deal easier to have a family member substitute for me in the costume. I've never needed to hire a stand-in, no."

The backgrounder frowned. "But you do have some associates who can change their shape or create illusions, correct?"

Bruce sighed. "I do, but if you think about it, I believe you'll understand why they might take a somewhat dim view of my request for help in violating a restraining order. And even if they were willing to impersonate me for some reason, it's doubtful that your people would be able to arrest them without taking more extreme measures."

"And even more doubtful that their one phone call would be to PMWE's VP of Finance, instead of you, or their lawyer," Chiarello smiled for the first time since they'd gone downstairs.

Bruce blinked.

Chiarello's smile broadened. "I guess this _could_ be some elaborate setup on your part to terrorize someone for starting up with you with a TRO and implicate one of PMWE's top execs in the ensuing scandal, while you're at it. I mean, I have no doubt that if you _wanted_ to do things that way, you could arrange it. But, somehow, I just can't see you doing anything that convoluted or," he shook his head, "amateurish." He sighed.

"In other words, Mr. Wayne?" He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. "Go home. Get a good night's sleep. You'll need to be back here tomorrow at 10 AM sharp to talk to a guy who's going to be nowhere _near_ as nice and polite as I am, and I wouldn't want to keep him waiting, if I were you." His smile thinned. "Go on, get out of here."

Bruce nodded and extended his hand automatically when Chiarello reached for it. Outside in the hallway, he frowned. Was the backgrounder softening, or was this all a ploy to catch him with his guard down?

It didn't matter, he realized. He _hadn't_ hired False Face, he wasn't violating the restraining order, and unless there was circumstantial evidence to suggest otherwise, he might as well take Chiarello's words at face value.

…As soon as he made sure that Oracle was monitoring police channels for any nasty surprises that might come up in the investigation.

* * *

The doorbell rang, shattering the peace of a Sunday morning breakfast. "Oh, honestly!" Sharon Ryerson muttered, pulling her bathrobe more tightly closed.

"Want me to get it, Ma?" Joel asked, his mouth full of breakfast cereal.

"No," Sharon sighed. "Eat. I'm already standing." She hurried to the door, absently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she pulled it open a crack. "Yes?"

"Detective Chiarello, ma'am," the man rumbled, holding up an ID badge. "May I come in?"

"Police?" Sharon asked sharply. "What do you want?"

"I just need to ask you a few questions," Chiarello said. "There's been some suspicious activity in the neighborhood, and I thought you might have seen something."

"Oh." She hesitated for a moment, before pulling the door open. "C-come in," she said, as she led him to the living room. "Excuse the mess." She realized that she was still standing there in her bathrobe. "Could you excuse me for one moment, please?"

Chiarello nodded and took the seat that she waved him toward. The room was modestly, but comfortably furnished, with a Lawson sofa and two matching armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. He settled into the armchair, then frowned and reached behind him to remove the throw cushion. He balanced it on his lap and took out a Moleskine notebook.

Sharon re-entered a few moments later. She was wearing a loose t-shirt over stretch pants, and had caught her hair back with a lycra band. "How can I help you, Detective?" she asked.

Chiarello smiled. "Why don't you have a seat? I won't take up too much of your time."

She obeyed with a look of weary resignation.

"Ms. Ryerson," Chiarello began, "last night, we received a call about some suspicious activity in this neighborhood around seven o'clock. Did you notice anything unusual?"

She shook her head, bewildered. "No…"

"Were you at home?"

"Yes, I was."

"Alone?"

"How is that your business, again?"

Chiarello sighed. "I'm just wondering if you were with anyone who might have seen something." He regarded her soberly and she looked away first.

"No, I wasn't alone," she said irritably. "I was meeting with a friend and an attorney."

"Those are two different people?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Have they got names?"

She frowned. "Do you really need that information?"

"Like I said," Chiarello replied, "I'm trying to get to the bottom of things. We have a man in custody right now, and we're trying to get an eyewitness to confirm if it's the person who was causing the disturbance. Since we've established that you didn't see anyone, I'd like to verify whether these other people did."

Indecision flared briefly in her eyes before she let out a long breath. "Ron Chester and Zach Shaw," she said.

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. Where would Ryerson have got the money to hire a guy like Shaw? "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "I appreciate your assistance. Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought, "about the restraining order—"

"I knew it," Sharon snapped. "I knew that's what this was about. He sent you to try to strong-arm me into backing down, didn't he?"

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you can tell Mr. Wayne that I'll see him in court!" she barrelled on.

"Ms. Ryerson," Chiarello said calmly, "that's between you and Mr. Wayne. Now, I'm here on police business, and I'm just trying to get some answers. I'm only curious about whether you decided to take out the restraining order before or after your conversation with Lester Paxton. That's all."

As Chiarello spoke, the expression on Sharon's face changed from fury to confusion. She blinked. "Who's… Lester Paxton?"

* * *

Bruce set down the revolver and punched the controller button on the console to retrieve the paper bulls-eye. With every incremental increase in accuracy came an increase in his realization that he was holding a weapon whose primary purpose was to take life. Of course, not every bullet was fired at a living being, and not every bullet wound was fatal. None of that changed the fact that a gun was designed to kill. His batarangs carried that potential, yes—as did most of the knives in his kitchen, or a clothesline, or a hammer, for that matter. However, none of those other items had been created with that aim in mind.

As the weight of the gun grew more comfortable in his hand, the weight in his heart grew harder to bear. Always before, he had felt exhilaration when he mastered a new skill. Now, not only was he not feeling it, he knew that a part of him would have been horrified if he did.

It wasn't too late to back out, he knew. He could take on another identity, keep a lower profile. As long as he avoided GCPD headquarters, he could probably just wear the suit and everyone would assume that it was Dick.

His jaw set. He was no quitter! Worse, he'd given his word to Sawyer that he was going to go through with this. He might have lost his loved ones, his freedom, his self-respect, his reputation, his company, his colleagues, his privacy, and a host of other gifts he'd taken for granted, but his word was still golden—in his own eyes. He had to make it meaningful to others, too. He clenched his teeth. He might still fail the admissions process. He might wash out of the academy if he couldn't pass gun handling. But if he did, it wouldn't be because he'd given up.

He took a deep breath and clipped a new target to the carrier for deployment.

* * *

"You sure you don't want me to wait for you when I'm done?" Selina asked, as Bruce pulled on his jacket. "Fix your collar," she added, reaching forward to straighten it.

"I've got it," Bruce said, pulling back. "And it's going to be a while. You don't need to wait," he added, as he fussed with the collar. "You're clear on what to tell him?"

Selina nodded. "As long as you're clear on what he hasn't already been told."

Bruce nodded, still fiddling with the collar. "It's almost a shame," he mused, "we've managed to be almost completely honest until now."

"Yes, but since, in their eyes, I'm not Catwoman, obviously, saying that we met in costume would be…" She broke off with an exasperated sigh. "You're making it worse. Here," she reached toward his collar once more. This time, Bruce gave in with a sigh of his own.

"I," he took a deep breath. "I don't need you to wait for me at the station. However, if you could be here when I get back, that would be appr—" He stopped. " _I_ would appreciate it." He sighed. "There's a side of me that I try very hard to keep under control. Everyone… Dick, Jim… Chiarello, has been quick to let me know that what I'm about to face today will test that control."

"I've seen you bat out before," Selina interrupted. "I don't enjoy it, but it's not exactly going to scar me for life."

Bruce shook his head. "You've seen me get angry when I had a regular outlet for my frustrations. I don't," he took a deep breath. "I've been trying to figure out whether I'm really… managing as well as I think I am, or whether I'm still suppressing things, the way I used to. Saving them for the costume. Exercise—training—does help, but I don't know if it's been enough and I've just been keeping everything buried like I used to. From the way everyone else has been acting, today's evaluation stands a good chance of letting me know for sure, one way or the other. If the results aren't what we're hoping for," he looked down, "I'd prefer a chance to calm down on the way home, rather than have you see me at my worst."

Selina sucked in air through her teeth and blew it out. Then she placed both hands on his shoulders. "I've seen you at your worst," she said, "running yourself ragged, looking like you hadn't changed your costume—or shaved—in a week, sending everyone away, right when you need us the most. And…" She looked away, but tightened her grip on Bruce's shoulders, "when I found out I was pregnant, I broke into Arkham. I thought… I don't know what I thought. That if you knew, you'd sit up and start fighting again? I, I got there at eight—swiped a nurse's uniform, and made it down to your… room. Dick got into the elevator as I got out. And I saw you. I c-called your name. You," she swallowed hard. "You never answered."

"When was that?" Bruce asked hollowly.

"About two months after you were admitted."

"I… there isn't much I remember about that time. I was under heavy sedation for a while—"

"I know that," Selina gulped. "I knew it then. I'm not trying to blame you for not acknowledging me. I'm trying to tell you," she turned back to face him. Her eyes glistened, but only the faintest tremor betrayed her voice. "You don't want me to see you at your worst, Bruce? That night in Arkham? _That_ was you at your worst. And whatever you think you might let slip out today, it's not going to be worse for me than it was seeing you then."

Bruce pulled her closer. "Still, if you stay, that means that Jim will be looking after Helena for over six hours. I'm not sure that's fair to him."

"Better not let him hear you say that," Selina replied, with a half-smile. "Fine. You win. I'll come back here when Chiarello's done talking to me." She moved away from him to get her own coat out of the vestibule closet, then turned back to face him. "But if Dick wasn't going to be waiting for you when you came out, I'd drop Helena with the Titans and come back."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "The Titans? That's a bit of a switch from a few months ago."

"Yeah, well, Helena's a few months older now. I think she can handle them." She pulled her coat off the hanger. "You lock up," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I'll wait in the garage."

"Wait. _She_ can handle _them_?" Bruce called after her retreating figure.

"Hurry up, Bruce," she sang back, "time's not moving any slower!"

* * *

_Interviewee: Selina Kyle_

MC: How did you two meet?

SK: It was a society dinner. I was there as the guest of some Gothcorp AVP. Mike… Rochester? Roark? I [giggle] oh, dear. This is embarrassing. You'd think I'd remember. Especially since, when I went to freshen up, I came back to find my date pawing some barely-legal young thing who could've been his daughter. Well, I stormed out onto the patio and nearly collided with Bruce. Spilled my Cabernet all over his white tux jacket. Red wine makes such a dreadful mess, you know. I was mortified.

MC: How did he react?

SK: He apologized for not getting out of my way and offered to get me another drink. We got to talking and…

MC: You were together ever since?

SK: No, but we kept running into each other. I found out afterwards that he suspected me of being Catwoman. He wasn't the first or the last, so I can hardly blame him.

MC: And when he found out you weren't?

SK: Well, Batman stopped stalking me. Bruce… How can I explain it? He didn't really ask me out, but we'd keep running into each other at parties. I didn't realize until much later that when he'd disappear to answer the signal, he'd often come back to discover that his date had gone home with someone else. Sometimes, my dates would do the same. Other times, I attended on my own. Sometimes, we'd both just enjoy a conversation, and then go back to whoever we'd arrived with.

MC: When did you find out he was Batman?

SK: Hmm… That's a tough one. I guess I sort of noticed that he'd usually find some excuse to make himself scarce if the signal went up. And one time, I… I kissed him good night, on the cheek. The light wasn't very good. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a bruise that hadn't been there before he disappeared for a good part of the evening.

MC: And you hadn't noticed it until then?

SK: No. I think he realized that I had because he walked away, touching his cheek where I'd kissed him, with this… well, it was almost a boyish smile, really. But he was covering the bruise.

MC: Which you don't know you saw.

SK: Which I wasn't sure I'd seen. Until I got in and started cleaning off my makeup. And there was something on my lipstick.

MC: Something…

SK: Foundation. He'd used makeup to cover the bruise. It came off when I kissed him.

MC: And that led you to believe he was Batman.

SK: Not right away. I did think it odd that he'd be wearing makeup, of course. After that, though… well, I started to pay attention to little things. Actually, I started seeing more bruises. I… admit I started imagining all kinds of scenarios, from his owing money to a loan shark—not everyone knows how to live within their means, after all, to his getting into drunken brawls.

MC: Did you ever see him drunk?

SK: I never saw him touch alcohol. It made me wonder whether he might have been struggling with a problem in that area. Maybe he didn't drink at parties, where he'd make a spectacle of himself, but went to cheap bars when he wanted to get loaded. I even wondered if there wasn't some sort of domestic situation. Sounds like something out of a bad melodrama, doesn't it?

MC: So, how did you find out?

SK: We were walking in Robinson Park one evening. It was getting dark. We heard something from a wooded area, a bit off of the path. Bruce told me to wait where I was. I followed him.

MC: What was it?

SK: Two men were attacking a woman. Bruce… it was… he was trying to hold back, to make it look like he was getting in lucky punches. One of them pulled a gun. The other had a knife. He… had them both disarmed in about five seconds. Then he went back to trying not to let on how well he could fight.

MC: And you suspected him of being Batman?

SK: No, I suspected him of being a masochist. I… to be honest, I wanted to get away from him. I didn't know what was going on. When he finished with the muggers, I told him I was going home. It was getting cold. I wasn't really dressed for it, but I didn't want to be around him right then.

MC: How did he deal with that?

SK: He wasn't happy.

MC: What did he do?

SK: Well, he tried to talk me out of it. When he saw that wouldn't work, he asked me to wait and he'd call me a taxi. I refused. I just wanted to put as much distance as possible between us.

MC: How did he react to that?

SK: I'd say he was… disappointed, but not surprised. When he saw I was serious, he took off his jacket.

MC: His jacket?

SK: The temperature was dropping. I really wasn't dressed for it. I didn't want to take the jacket, but, well, I _was_ shivering. He told me I could mail it back to him if I wanted. I thanked him.

MC: So you went home.

SK: I did.

MC: But obviously, you saw him again.

SK: Well, yes.

MC: What made you decide to?

SK: I wanted to give him back the jacket—in person.

MC: Why?

SK: Well, I wasn't sure if I'd get into trouble mailing it back.

MC: Trouble?

SK: He hadn't gone through the inside pockets. Or, maybe he knew what was in them, and it was easier to let me connect the dots than tell me outright. In any case, I wasn't sure if it was legal to send… batarangs… via USPS…

MC: Do you think he did mean for you to find out that he was Batman?

* * *

_Interviewee: Barbara Gordon_

BG: With Bruce, it's sort of hard to tell.

MC: Can you clarify, please?

BG: He plans for every scenario and adjusts those plans accordingly, when real life changes the rules on him. It's very hard to catch him by surprise.

MC: How did you find out?

BG: I…

MC: Ms. Gordon?

BG: A few years back, the annual Policeman's Ball was a costume gala. I was attending. I'd created a version of the Bat-suit to wear. I thought I'd surprise my father. Well, long story short, Killer Moth crashed the party to abduct Bruce Wayne. I thought I could help…

MC: Because of the costume?

BG: Partly. The cowl hid my hair and, between the drape of the cape and the muscle padding of the suit, it was less obvious that I was a woman. And I knew a bit about hand-to-hand combat. More than a bit, actually. Being the police commissioner's daughter, there was always a real possibility that someone might try to abduct me to use as leverage against my father. So, as soon as I was old enough, Dad enrolled me in self-defense classes. Judo, savate, kick-boxing, gymnastics—if I hadn't gotten to college on an academic scholarship, I _might_ have wrangled an athletic one. I figured if I stuck to the shadows, maybe I could pull it off.

MC: Was your father aware?

BG: Of course not. This is confidential, right?

MC: Absolutely.

BG: Good. Yeah, well, it went better than I'd hoped. Of course, I never counted on getting my cowl ripped in the back so my hair showed. Next thing I knew, the media was inquiring about who "Batgirl" was.

MC: Wait. You were Batgirl?

BG: I wore a costume. One night, I became Batgirl. Then I hung up the costume and went back to my life. Or I tried to. Not long after that, I met Batman.

MC: Mr. Wayne.

BG: I didn't know that then. He thanked me for helping and told me to stay clear from that point onward. He… may have said something about my father being a good friend and not wanting to have to explain to him what I was up to.

MC: How did you take that?

BG: I was furious. I mean, not only had I gone out just the one time, but his coming up to me and telling me to stop…

MC: You resented it.

BG: Oh, hell, yeah.

MC: Go on.

BG: Well, I started to work out more. I think it was pride. I told you before that I knew that being the commissioner's daughter had its risks. I didn't want to be in a position where I'd have to depend on Batman—or my father, for that matter—to save me.

MC: So, you had no plans to become a vigilante?

BG: Fantasies. But I really didn't like the idea of going behind my father's back, and I knew he'd never condone it.

MC: Ah. So, getting back to Mr. Wayne…

BG: Sorry. Yes. Okay. Gotham Libraries had a Books-on-Wheels program for shut-ins. Still did, the last time I checked, which—admittedly—was a few years back. It's a library van that drives to people who aren't able to get to one of the branches and essentially brings a branch to them.

MC: Yes, I'm familiar with it. Go on.

BG: Usually, we had a designated driver for the van, but if he or she couldn't make it, we tried to get another staff member to make the rounds. One night in July, I volunteered. I had a delivery in Park Row. And, as I was slowing down to make sure that I didn't miss the address, I happened to look down an alley and I saw Batman drop something on the pavement. He seemed… I dunno… less… scary. Kind of… down.

MC: What did you do?

BG: I kept driving. I made the delivery. When I was coming back, the alley was deserted. I admit it: I was curious. I got out of the van and went to explore—and yes, I know just how stupid that was.

MC: Go on.

BG: It was dark. I had a flashlight on my key-ring. That didn't give me much light, but it was enough. I saw two roses on the pavement. And… things fell into place. Everyone knew about the Wayne murders. I could only really think of one reason why Batman would be leaving flowers in Crime Alley.

MC: What did you do next?

BG: Well, I… got attacked. Three thugs in gang colors. I fought them off—all those self-defense classes paid off. They broke and ran. I looked up, and I saw him standing there, watching. A week later, Mr. Wayne came into the library and said that he was looking for someone to tutor his son for the SATs. He wondered if I'd be interested. There was something about the way he asked that made me think there was more to it than that.

MC: Was there?

BG: Yes. After I'd been working with Dick for about an hour, he asked if I could join him in the gym. Then, he proceeded to dissect every move I'd made the other night. He pointed out everything I'd done right and everything that would have failed against more-seasoned opponents. Then he asked me if I wanted to learn more. I accepted.

MC: Why?

BG: If Batman wanted to give you pointers in self-defense, wouldn't you jump at the chance? I'd never planned on being Batgirl, and it didn't take me long to realize that I wasn't interested in the whole cape-and-tights bit. I did get to know the women who became Batgirl afterwards. I mentored one of them, in fact. And… that was how Dick and I started to get to know each other. Oh, and he aced the SATs.

MC: Did Mr. Wayne ever encourage you to engage in illegal activity?

* * *

_Interviewee: Richard Grayson (Wayne)_

RG: Not at first, no. When my parents were killed, he wanted to bring the guy who engineered it to justice, but he didn't intend to involve me.

MC: But he did involve you.

RG: Um… I sort of involved me. He told me to stay out of it. I didn't listen.

MC: Couldn't he control your behavior?

RG: To be fair, I don't think he expected me to climb out a second-story window, then move along a four-inch ledge for about twenty feet until I got to a tree, climb down, and hide myself in the back seat of the car under a tarp when Alfred went on an errand.

MC: How old were you?

RG: Almost nine.

MC: And after that, he made you Robin?

RG: No, after that, he chewed me out for putting myself in danger, grounded me, and installed a window safety lock, so it only opened about four inches. I didn't even know he was Batman, at the time.

MC: So… wait? When he did all that… was he Bruce or Batman?

RG: Batman chewed me out and escorted me back to the manor. Alfred sent me upstairs and told me that Bruce would be up shortly to discuss matters with me. I was tempted to go the window route again, but…

MC: But?

RG: I was afraid he'd decide to tell Child Services I wasn't happy there, since I kept running away. And I knew I was lucky. Running off to join the circus may be something of a cliché, but there were a couple of roustabouts who had done that—run off from situations that were a lot worse than the one in which I'd landed. Besides, I figured I had a lecture coming to me.

MC: What kind of lecture? Was he abusive? Verbally or physically?

RG: No, absolutely not. He told me he understood. I didn't believe him. Then he told me about how he lost his parents, and that he took me in because he thought he could help me. I told him the only way he could help me was… was by giving me five minutes alone with Zucco. He just shook his head and told me that I was confined to the manor until further notice, and that he was putting the safety lock in.

MC: How did you take that?

RG: I was angry. I think I felt a little guilty. No, I know I felt more than a little guilty. I went downstairs to apologize. Alfred told me he was out.

MC: Being Batman?

RG: Yeah. Not that I realized it at the time. He was actually out looking for my parents' killer. But all I saw was that he'd given me grief and bailed on me again.

MC: Again?

RG: He wasn't home that much. He was in the office, or out on patrol—something he called "having other plans," or sleeping in until noon.

MC: When did he make you Robin?

RG: Well, "Robin" was actually a nickname my mother had for me. I was born on the first day of spring. I guess things really got started, on the night of the Fourth of July. I'd been living there for about five weeks. That night, Bruce went out as usual and so did I.

MC: Where did you go?

RG: The outskirts of town. The circus was still there since the police investigation was ongoing. I decided to do a little investigating of my own. It didn't go well. Someone clubbed me from behind with a gun butt. I went down, split my forehead on a rock. And then, Batman showed up. He just… swooped down from I don't know where. One second the sky was empty, the next, there was this huge cape looming up behind the guy who beat me. I was a bit dazed, maybe concussed, but he took the guy out, pinned him down and told him the circus was off limits to him. I passed out and woke up in his… um… HQ. He asked me… scratch that. He told me that I wanted to find out who killed my parents. I didn't deny it. Then he said he couldn't let me go out untrained or I'd get hurt or worse.

MC: How did you react?

RG: I knew he was right. I just couldn't figure out why he cared—or why he kept popping up in my life more than Bruce did. So I asked him. Using roughly those words. And he pulled off the cowl and told me we had a lot to talk about.

MC: And he made you Robin?

RG: No. He made me practice. I honestly thought he meant to keep me training until I turned eighteen, but we did go out on patrol. Once. I wasn't ready.

MC: What happened?

RG: I got careless and my anger got the better of me. Luckily, he had my back.

MC: Elaborate?

RG: The perp had a heart attack. Batman called an ambulance while I was accusing the guy of faking it.

MC: Did the perp make it?

RG: Yes, but I didn't know it then.

MC: When did you find out?

RG: After the sentencing. As it turned out, my testimony wasn't needed to put him away—not after a full confession.

MC: Wait, so Batman left you hanging all those months?

RG: That was more or less my reaction when he told me the truth. I think it was partly a scare tactic, partly a test. He wanted to scare me into not letting my emotions run away with me in the field. And he wanted to test how far I was okay with letting them take me.

MC: And you don't consider that abusive?

RG: Not under the circumstances, no. He was testing if I was ready to be his partner. More, he was testing if I had what it took. And that meant not crossing the line to becoming a killer. He needed to know if I could leave things in the law's hands, even when I really wanted to take them further.

MC: It sounds like you failed.

RG: It felt like it, too, but in his book… it wasn't that I killed—or thought I had; it was that I didn't mean for it to go that far, I wasn't… pleased by it, and I didn't see it as an option going forward. I failed the 'ready to patrol as his partner from tonight on' test, but passed the 'possibly fit to be his partner at some point in the future' test.

MC: What happened after that?

RG: After that, I went back to training. He didn't want me out again. Looking back now, I understand it, but back then, all I wanted was another chance to prove myself.

MC: So you went out again to look for trouble.

RG: No. That time, trouble came to me…

* * *

It was taking everything Bruce had to keep his temper under control as Dr. Cinar continued the assessment.

"So, after your parents were killed, it sounds as though you transferred your filial devotion to Mr. Pennyworth and Dr. Thompkins, and now that they're out of the picture, you've found a father figure in Mr. Gordon, is that about right?"

"I was eight years old when my parents were killed," Bruce said evenly. "Alfred and Dr. Thompkins did their best to step into that void, but I didn't appreciate it until years later.

Dr. Cinar nodded with something that might have appeared to be sympathy. "So, one set of parents abandoned you when you were eight—"

"They were murdered," Bruce corrected.

"Yes, but as a result, they weren't there when you needed them most. Then your eldest son dropped off the face of the earth for eighteen months—"

"After I did everything possible to alienate him."

"Yes, I do notice that you try to take responsibility for the actions of those around you. Still, it's evident that his departure contributed to your abandonment issues."

"No." The police psychiatrist was wrong, he knew it. But he didn't seem to be able to come up with a counter argument beyond his one-word denial. "Well, I suppose I can see how you might take it as abandonment issues, but—"

Dr. Cinar nodded with satisfaction. "Precisely. And your second son abandoned first your moral code, then your home, then—in death—you, and finally, when he miraculously returned, it was to turn his back on everything you stood for."

"He thought I'd abandoned him!"

Dr. Cinar clasped his hands together before him and smiled smugly. "Of course, Mr. Wayne, of course. There's that insistence on holding yourself personally accountable for the behaviour of others, once more. Now," he consulted his notes, "your third Robin… oh, yes, several abandonments at critical junctures here… hmmm… likely why you haven't been able to form very many personal connections. At least not… appropriate ones."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well, clearly you've had a long string of female companions, very few of whom you've even considered committing to. Those that do get close, you find some reason to push away." He looked down his spectacles at Bruce. "Would it perhaps be a cover for feelings that are… _in_ appropriate?"

Bruce fought down the urge to spring to his feet and walk out. "I'm still not sure what you're getting at," he replied.

"Did you ever wish to pursue a romantic relationship with your guardian?"

"What?"

"Well, it's plain from the way you talk about him that you loved and admired him a great deal. Some might say you idolized him. And, of course, his not being a blood relation would—"

"Absolutely not," Bruce interrupted.

Dr. Cinar frowned. "You seem rather reluctant to even consider the possibility. I was under the impression that you prided yourself on looking at evidence from a logical, rather than an emotional standpoint. And yet, here you are, unwilling to even entertain the notion that your neuroses could stem from feelings that you've long been suppressing."

Bruce felt his face grow hot. "I'm unwilling to entertain the notion because I know that it's as preposterous as… as… Joker winning the next Nobel Peace Prize." _Careful, Bruce. If Luthor could become president…_

Cinar frowned. "Now, your feelings for Mr. Gordon…"

* * *

_Are you there?_

Martha Kent smiled and began to type a reply. Her forehead creased as she read the next line:

_Nhjhjfhhpi8ttm n =-s_

She erased what she had been writing, and typed instead:

_Did the keyboard just fall? Or did Selina give you a new kitten that thinks computers were made to walk upon?_

The answer wasn't long in coming.

_Neither. But I'm afraid I have a beautiful young girl on my knee, who's young enough to be my granddaughter._

Martha laughed aloud.

_And how IS Helena this fine afternoon?_

The response wasn't long in coming.

_Mdxrhycgjn,,,,,,mbvjyh,frhrtr_

_Ah. That well._ She sighed. _And how are you doing?_

A line of type appeared below her own a few moments later.

_This weather isn't the greatest for my leg, but all things considered, I've still got my health. Not something I should be taking for granted at my age. Not that you'd know anything about that._

Martha chuckled. _Charmer._

_I try. How's the planting coming?_

_I'm seeing quite a few sprouts in the greenhouses. Once the threat of a late frost is over, we'll have to start moving them—not to mention sowing the later crops._

There was a pause. _Wish I'd known something about setting up greenhouses back in the No Man's Land days. Until Poison Ivy started allowing exports from the park conservatories, we were mostly eating dried and canned. At least until the carrots and tomatoes came up._

Martha bit her lip. _We should have done more. We wanted to. There was talk of sending some of our surplus your way, but more cynical voices prevailed. Some said dropping parcels over Gotham would only incite rioting. Others said the government might just fire on anyone trying to breach the barricades._

_That's possible_ , Jim typed back. _Not that I'd have wanted to hear it back then._

_Do you still have a garden?_ Martha typed.

The answer wasn't long in coming. _Well, at the moment, it's more like potted parsley and ornamental chillies. But after all the trouble Bruce and I went to clearing the kitchen gardens last suma0frasnjgfpoksorigt_

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, Jim resumed.

_Sorry, Martha. I'd better go put someone down for a nap. But as I was saying, I think I'll be doing a bit of planting outdoors in the spring. Of course, if you have any tips…_

Martha smiled. _I just might. Skrype back later? Not too late, mind. Busy day tomorrow. As always._

The reply wasn't long in coming. _If not tonight, then tomorrow. Take care._

_You too._

* * *

Dick closed the office door behind him and wiped his brow theatrically, even though there was no audience to see him. It actually hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it would be; despite what Gordon had said about police vetting procedures tightening up over the last few years, Dick remembered his own background check as having been a lot worse.

He took the elevator down to the second floor and headed toward the office number that Chiarello had given him. When he was nearly to his destination, a door opened and Bruce strode out. The door closed softly behind him.

For a moment, as Bruce walked toward him, Dick thought that all was well. Then the mask faltered.

Dick took a hesitant step closer. "Bruce…?"

Bruce pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment. "Not now," he said curtly. "Let's go." He moved off rapidly in the direction from which Dick had come.

Dick followed.

* * *

"Don't go back to the manor, yet," Bruce said abruptly, as Dick put his key into the ignition.

Dick nodded. "Where to, then?"

Bruce was silent for a long moment. "Away from here. Just… just drive."

Dick nodded. "You got it. Got a direction in mind?"

Silence.

Dick thought for a moment. "I don't think I've been up to South Darby for a long time. You?"

When Bruce didn't answer, Dick took it both as a 'no' and as permission to proceed. South Darby was in the northeastern corner of Bristol, about as far from Wayne Manor as one could get and still be in the same township. "We'll take the scenic route," Dick added, heading west toward the Vincefinkel Bridge—one of two that connected the three islands that made up Gotham City with Somerset Township on the mainland. From there, he headed north along Starkings Parkway, keeping one eye peeled to make sure he didn't miss the sign for the Mooney Bridge, which would start them looping back toward Bristol.

Bruce didn't utter a word until the chain-link fence and wide open fields of Archie Goodwin Memorial Airport came into view. When he did, it was in a voice so low that Dick missed it at first.

"Sorry?"

Bruce's hand locked around the Mulsanne's recessed door handle as his eyes screwed tightly closed. "Have," he repeated himself in a slightly louder voice, "have I changed at all in the last three years? Or have I just been fooling myself these past months?"

He _would_ ask that at a time when Dick needed to keep his eyes on the road. "You really have to ask?" he exclaimed.

"I wouldn't have thought so before this afternoon," Bruce said dully, "but now—"

"Now, you keep thinking that way," Dick's voice was firm. "Because I can tell you this much: before Arkham, you wouldn't have invited the Kents to spend Christmas. You wouldn't be going this whole police route at all. And you sure as hell wouldn't have hugged me before I went into quarantine."

"If I hadn't," Bruce replied, "and if it had been smallpox, I would have spent the rest of my life regretting not having done so when I had the chance."

"And before Arkham, you wouldn't have let yourself consider that possibility." He changed lanes, preparing to take the exit to the bridge. "C'mon, I know you, Bruce. You would have left me in Alfred's care, telling me, him, and anyone who challenged you that I was going to beat it—and yeah, you did say that before I went into quarantine, but then it was encouragement, not denial." He paused. When Bruce said nothing, he went on. "Going by your past track record, you would have gone out on patrol, taking your time with it, staying out as long as possible and expecting me to be on the road to recovery by the time you got back. Then, when that didn't happen, you would have just spent more time away, because you wouldn't have been able to deal with it, so you'd have thrown yourself into work, the office, anything that would keep you from having to face what was happening."

Bruce flinched. "I never realized…" he whispered.

"Yeah, I know. But bottom line? That was then." He took one hand off the wheel and gave Bruce's arm a quick squeeze. "So, if you really don't know if there've been any changes, there's proof right there." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce open his mouth to speak. "And in case you were about to mention that you _couldn't_ patrol this time, one: right up until the point you were arrested, you were out there even though you knew that Akins wasn't sanctioning it. Two: even if you weren't going to patrol, we both know that you could have gone out, or just stayed upstairs, or spent my whole quarantine period holed up in the lab, refusing to take time out to check up on me. So, sorry. Not buying that one either."

Bruce's jaw closed.

Dick grinned.

A moment later, a rueful smile ghosted across Bruce's face, as they skirted Brentwood, headed into Gotham Heights. He let go of the door handle.

He didn't say anything further, but it was apparent to Dick that he was more relaxed than he had been when they'd started the drive.

It was nearly ten minutes before Bruce spoke again. "Dick?"

"Hmmm?"

"Is there anything in South Darby that you actually wanted to see, or was this a strategic move to position us closer to the manor so it would be a shorter drive when I was ready to go back?"

Dick tilted his head to one side. "I thought you'd get a kick out of the scenic rail yards and chemical companies," he said innocently. "Or the auxiliary cave, complete with punching bags and free weights in prime condition."

Bruce shook his head, but the half-smile was back. "Turn it around and let's go home."

"You're on." He took a deep breath. "Guess you've probably had to spill your guts enough for one day, but if you do want to talk about it…"

Bruce blinked. "I just did."

"Oh. Right." He'd always been good at deciphering Riddler's cryptic clues—a skill which had a relevant application now. "It's just… all I got out of it was that someone who's never met you before decided that you were exactly the way you were three years ago, before you ever even walked into his office; and somehow you decided that he's a better authority than the people who've known you forever, because he's got a couple of pieces of sheepskin on his wall."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. Then his shoulders slumped. "Unfortunately," he said, "he does have a certain amount of authority in my circumstances."

"True," Dick admitted, his smile dimming fractionally.

Bruce made a disgusted sound. "Chiarello's convinced that my temper is a time bomb, waiting to go off. Cinar…" He sighed. "Cinar made me feel like I was eight years old again. Helpless." He nearly spit the last word out. "As though all the work that I've done since… since I started working with Alex was just a façade. He attempted to test his theory."

"And?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "I didn't dissolve in tears. I didn't throw his snow globe out the window either—although I'll admit I was tempted. But I don't know if I convinced him to re-evaluate his hypothesis, or whether he interpreted my refusal to accept that hypothesis as denial bordering on delusion." He let out another long breath. "Thanks. I think I just needed to hear someone else disagree with his opinion."

Dick gave Bruce a hard look. Then he turned back to the road. "We're having a spar when we get back."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't need—"

"Great. I do. Either I go out tonight and give that guy a piece of my mind, or you help me burn off some of my energy now. Your call."

Bruce looked like he was about to protest, but something checked him. "Spar," he said finally.

Dick gave him a curt nod. "Spar it is."

* * *

"I appreciate your taking the time to come back, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said. "I realize that you're a busy man, and I'm sorry to ask you down here on a Sunday evening."

Les smiled benevolently. "Not at all, detective. I recognize the need to be thorough. Especially where Bruce is concerned. How can I be of service?"

Chiarello frowned. "I was wondering if you could clarify for me how Mr. Wayne—Bruce, if you like—how he was able to give you all the slip when he needed to get away quickly. I mean, obviously, during the day, if he wasn't at the office, you wouldn't have been keeping tabs on him, but at fundraisers… late-night meetings…"

Paxton spread his hands expansively. "Well, he missed more than a few of those, too. But honestly, I'm not sure whether you've ever attended one of our galas. They tend to be rather crowded. It's very possible to get away, with nobody the wiser."

"Ah," Chiarello nodded. "Now, Bruce has, on occasion, needed his presence to be noted in one place while he was off doing something else. Did you ever detect anything of that nature? It's fine if you didn't. He would likely have hired the best."

Paxton's eyes narrowed. "You mean like an actor. A… a stunt double?"

"Well, it would have been Bruce attempting the dangerous stunts, when you think about it. But in essence…"

"Why that sonnovab… gun," Paxton amended hastily. "So, that's how he… yes, Detective, there were times when Bruce seemed more oblivious than usual. I guess I should have suspected but… well… when he was around, he always did seem more than a bit muddled." His frown yielded to a relieved smile. "That actually would explain a good deal."

Chiarello nodded. "Um… maybe you can help me with this one, actually. Pursuant to an unrelated investigation. Let's say that we needed to hire a stand-in for a delicate operation. Is there a particular agency that you'd suggest we approach? Someone you can recommend?"

Paxton chuckled at that. "I'm sorry, detective. I'd like to help, but in all honesty, Bruce would probably be a better person than I to ask for assistance in that regard."

"Ah," Chiarello leaned back. "Now that puzzles me."

"Does it?" Paxton asked, his hearty smile giving way to surprise.

"Well…yeah. See, someone matching Wayne's description was brought in last night; the reason isn't important right now. The thing is, he's leading us to believe that you were somehow involved."

"What?" The smile was gone, replaced by a thunderous look. "Surely, you don't seriously think that…"

"We have to investigate every angle," Chiarello said, raising his hands to chest level, palms facing out. "In most circumstances, hiring an impersonator isn't illegal, of course. I'm just trying to see whether the individual's contention holds any merit. Though I must admit I'm at a loss as to why you'd need to hire such an individual, when Mr. Wayne is more or less divorced from the day-to-day activities at PMWE at present."

"Precisely," Paxton said, smiling once more. Then his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Unless Wayne hired him to try to implicate me in something or other."

"Does Wayne have some sort of grudge against you?"

Paxton gave an exaggerated shrug. "Who knows what he was thinking? I was under the impression that he was in Arkham due to some mental health issues… delusion, perhaps? Maybe they didn't fix him up as well as they'd hoped."

Chiarello nodded. "I suppose that's possible," he allowed. "Mind you, that doesn't explain how the impersonator had your personal cell phone number on him; the same one you gave me. The new number you were assigned when you changed service providers," he paused a beat before he continued. "Four months ago. Well after Mr. Wayne's direct involvement with the company had ceased."

Paxton's expression turned icy as he sat up straighter in his chair. "I don't believe I'd care to discuss this matter any further without my lawyer present."

Chiarello nodded again. "That's probably a good call on your part."

* * *

"I've been waiting for you to get back," Barbara exclaimed, wheeling over to him with a broad smile. "How'd your interview go?"

Dick bent down and kissed her, but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. "Better than my first one, when I signed on with BPD. You?"

Barbara sighed. "Well, I fudged a bit on how long I operated as Batgirl. I couldn't lie outright, but I didn't want to share everything."

"Right," Dick nodded absently.

"Everything okay?"

Dick sighed. "I almost wish I were a drinking man. I think I could use a shot of something, round about now. Except that since I don't usually touch the stuff, I probably haven't got the tolerance for anything stronger than a beer or two."

Barbara pressed her lips together. "Well," she said slowly, "you _are_ over 21, and you aren't patrolling tonight. If you wanted to go down to the corner… or…"

He gave her a sad smile. "Nah. It's okay. It's probably better I don't. I'm about this close to tearing that shrink a new one, and I don't think I need anything impairing my judgment right now."

His tone was light, but there was a note of bitterness beneath the flippancy. "I gather Bruce's evaluation didn't go well," she replied.

Dick let out a long breath. "He was pretty worked up when he came out, but we were expecting that. He did a bit of venting about it in the car—venting for him, I mean. I could tell he was still pretty upset, so I challenged him to a practice spar, knowing that I was probably setting myself up as a punching bag. That was when I found out the rest of it."

Barbara hesitated for a moment. Then she wheeled over to the liquor cabinet.

"What are you…?"

"Getting the brandy and Kailua," she said. "Half an ounce of each in a cup of black coffee, with a teaspoon of sugar, whipped cream and a cherry on top. You're going to have one and I'm going to have one. And then, we're going to lock the doors and windows and just have a quiet evening together. Keep talking."

Dick needed little urging. "Do you know why he started getting so… cold when I was a teenager?"

Barbara froze, her hand more than halfway to the brandy bottle. "I… I thought it was because he couldn't deal with your struggle to be your own person, but if you're asking me… I guess not?"

"No," Dick let out a sigh."I mean… that was probably part of it. Only… He went to pick me up at school one day. I must've been about fourteen. He had the window down; I guess he wanted to call out to me when he saw me coming. And he heard some kid make a crack about…" He broke off.

"Dick?"

"You know the tabloid rumors? Three guys living together under one roof? Maybe there was a reason why no _woman_ caught Bruce's eye? And since the paparazzi never caught him in a compromising position with any men in public, there was speculation about what went on at home…"

"Oh my G-d."

Dick shook his head. "Kids say stupid things sometimes. Hurtful things. I dealt. I didn't want to tell Bruce about it because… you know, snitching wasn't exactly something you did. And I didn't want to hurt him. And there wasn't anything I would have wanted him to do about it anyway. I was afraid he'd call up the principal, make a stink, I don't know. Like I said, I was fourteen." He gave her a pained smile. "Kids _think_ stupid things sometimes. Anyway, Bruce decided—without talking it out or letting on he'd heard anything—that the best way to squelch that kind of talk was to be extra careful that nobody saw anything that could be misconstrued. You heard about that whole debacle, not so long ago, where some photographer with a long lens snapped topless photos of the Duchess of Cambridge, while she was sunbathing in private? Bruce didn't want to take a chance on someone getting shots of… anything that could be taken out of context if anyone caught it on record."

He bit his lip. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Thanks." Barbara murmured. "So, all that time, he backed off…"

"Because he thought he was doing me a favor. For my own good or whatever."

"And today, the shrink thought that he backed off because… what? Because he really did have those feelings?"

"Well," Dick said disgustedly, "the shrink seemed to have it in his head that there was a…" He reddened and looked away. "…A sexual component to his feelings for anyone who's lived on the property for any length of time."

Barbara set the two liquor bottles down on the counter with a bang. "You're not serious. That… person implied that Bruce had been sleeping with you? "

"Well, wanted to. And Alfred," Dick said disgustedly. "Apparently, the guy brought up Jason. And that time when Tim was living at the manor while his dad was in the hospital. And…" He stopped. "And… that's about it."

Dick hadn't known she could turn around the chair so quickly. Her eyes were blazing. "Of all the… Bruce and… You were kids! And Alfred? He suggested that Bruce…" Her expression hardened. "You were going to mention my father, just now. Weren't you?"

Dick nodded, tight-lipped.

"The shrink implied that Bruce was… The court appointed my dad to keep an eye on him. If they were… involved… argh! I… the power dynamics… the abuse of trust… the… the…" She was sputtering. "He actually implied that they were sleeping together?"

"Or wanted to," Dick repeated. "Obviously, Bruce told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, but the guy sounded like his mind was already made up. Anyway, you can understand why Bruce was—"

"Upset? Oh, yeah. What I don't understand is why this guy even has a license to practice. Well when I get through with him, he'll be lucky if he can get a license to fish! I'll—"

"Babs…"

"Don't 'Babs' me! Damn it, Bruce has been through enough already, without that guy jumping to those kinds of half-baked conclusions. Ugh! I'll kill him, I'll…"

Dick caught her hands in his and squeezed. "No, you won't," he said softly.

Barbara closed her eyes and nodded. "No, I won't. But I can still dream."

"Oh, yeah."

She sighed. "I was going to just have that coffee break to be sociable, but I think I could actually use one, right about now."

"Coffee'll be ready soon," Dick smiled. "Oh, I almost forgot; I need to check in with someone; fill him in on what's been happening lately. It'll just take a minute…"

* * *

"Thank you. Yes, this does put a better slant on things. Let me test the waters and I'll get back to you."

The man hung up phone and then immediately keyed in a different number from memory. "We need to meet," he said without preamble. "There've been some new developments regarding the gala and Ms. Ryerson's involvement..."


	12. 11. Close to the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paxton may not have as much support as he thinks. Bruce's application process hits a serious snag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for police procedure help. Thanks to Elle and Xenith for legal advice.
> 
> "You Can't Break the Fall" written by Marc McClurg and Jerry Salley. Recorded by Joe Nichols on his Man with a Memory album (Universal South, 2002).

_You say it's got no chance_

_You make no mistakes_

' _Cause you've been close to the edge before and walked away_

_But your day's comin'_

_Don't kid yourself_

_And when it comes you'll be down before you knew you fell_

— _Marc McClurg, Jerry Salley, "You Can't Break the Fall"_

**Chapter 11—Close to the Edge**

Michael Abbott glanced pointedly around the board room. "Aren't we missing someone?" he demanded.

Ron shook his head. "Les wasn't invited tonight."

Michael blinked. "Wait. You mean that when you asked us here…" His expression hardened. "Just what are you trying to pull, Ron?"

"Maybe you should be asking yourself what Les was trying to pull, Mike." Ron took a deep breath and rose to his feet, bracing his hands on the polished oak table and hoping that nobody would see that they were sweating. "Last week, Sharon Ryerson had a temporary restraining order issued against Bruce Wayne. There was no legal justification for doing so, and it was done without the prior knowledge of myself or Lester Paxton. However, Les took it upon himself to justify the restraining order by hiring an actor to impersonate Bruce Wayne and," he took another breath, "make it appear as though Wayne was in violation. The actor was caught."

"And Les?" Teresa Korning ventured.

Ron exhaled. "Well, that's the thing, isn't it? I mean… if you were an actor hired to do a job and you then found out that what you were doing was, in fact, illegal, and that you could be facing—I haven't looked up the statutes, to be honest. Fine, imprisonment, community service… it doesn't really matter. Bottom line is, if it were me, I'd be trying to prove I had no idea what I was getting involved with."

"Which means," Ross Kendricks said heavily, "that there's a good chance that this is going to reflect back on Paxton."

Ron nodded. "Unfortunately, that's not all of it. The actor in question has a criminal record. Les knew it going in. Matter of fact, it was a big reason why he hired him—he wanted someone whom he figured wouldn't care if the job was on the shady side. Obviously, this could be a serious concern if the press finds out. A PMWE director hiring a known criminal to discredit a former CEO and current majority shareholder…"

Abbott let loose with a loud expletive. "Can this be traced back to us?"

"Not unless Paxton tries to implicate us," Ron replied. "Of course, he might try to do exactly that."

Sonia Arnold frowned. "How do you know so much about it, Ron?"

Ron sighed. "Because Paxton tried to pull me in. Sorry. I know I've been behind him one hundred percent on other matters, but I had to draw the line there. And considering that this is now poised to blow up in his face…"

Ross Kendricks paled. "If word of this gets out to the media… Ron, you're a bit of a spin doctor. Can we get out of this unscathed?"

Ron fought not to smile. He'd been hoping for a question like this. "Well," he said slowly, "the last I looked, the 'P' in PMWE didn't stand for Paxton—much as he might like it to." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Everyone remembers that what set this whole thing off was Les getting word that Bruce Wayne is attending the gala, and his jumping to the conclusion that it's a precursor to Bruce's retaking the reins here. Honestly, I've been asking myself how likely that is, in light of certain recent developments. For example," he continued, "in the last couple of days, I think we've all been contacted by the police and made aware that Bruce Wayne is looking at a midlife career change."

There were a few startled nods.

"Okay. We can assume that before they approve him—if they approve him—he's going to have to undergo a thorough psychological…" he frowned. "…or should that be a psychiatric assessment? Anyway, I'd say that at this point, we forget about keeping him from attending the gala. Either he passes the psych assessment—whatever the 'psych' is short for—in which case, he probably is fit to return to the office… If he even wants to, I mean… or he fails the assessment, which gives us stronger grounds for arguing against his return. But if he passes the assessment, he's going to be training for another job—one which would almost definitely interfere with any hours he might want to put in here, at PMWE. In other words, maybe we've been looking at this all wrong, and Wayne just wants a night at a society dinner—like old times." He shrugged. "He _is_ president emeritus. Why should it be cause for concern if he wants to attend a Wayne Foundation function? It's his foundation, after all. Regardless, unless and until he makes a move toward regaining his former position—a more concrete move than attending a Foundation charity gala, I mean—I think we can sit back and observe."

"And if he passes the assessment?" Sonia asked. "Do we want him back?"

Ron shrugged. "If he passes the assessment, we might find it harder to stop him, if that's his choice. Like I just said, though, I'm not sure how much time he'll be able to devote to the company if he's also going to be wearing a badge. My guess is that he'll do what he's always done: trust Fox to handle things and put in a couple of appearances, every now and again. When you think about it, I don't honestly believe his return would significantly alter the status quo."

They were nodding again, but Ron noticed a few smiles, as well. He allowed his own to surface briefly. "Now, as far as Paxton is concerned…" he said slowly.

"We weren't consulted on this latest course of action," Sonia Arnold said flatly.

Abbott half-rose to his feet. "He's gone the limit and I think we can all agree that we're not going down with him."

"If the media should get wind of this…" Sean Vansickle's face was pasty. "In addition to publicity we don't need, can you imagine how the shareholders will react?"

"Unfortunately," Ron nodded, "I can and I have. They're going to want blood, and I think we all know whose. The only real question is how many go out along with him. I'd just as soon not have my head among the rolling, and I'm sure most of us feel the same. Or does someone have an objection that they'd like to voice?"

He looked around the room. Five sets of eyes looked back at his and then down at the table. Nobody uttered a word. He nodded, only slightly surprised at how quickly allegiances had shifted. It was easy enough to see which way the wind was blowing now. "Very well. Let's proceed to the next order of business, then." He paused a beat. "Damage control. Specifically with regard to Ryerson."

Kendricks frowned. "She made her bed."

"With PMWE-supplied mattress and box springs," Ron shot back. "Bottom line: Paxton used her, but we let him. If we're worried about media fallout, I don't think it's going to look very good for us if it comes out that we knowingly went along with Paxton's taking advantage of a grieving widow."

"What are you proposing, then?"

Ron told them.

* * *

"That's correct," Abbott spoke into the telephone several minutes later. "We are prepared to continue to pay Ms. Ryerson's legal fees, even though Paxton made the initial arrangement without proper authority or consultation. No," he said, with a strange smile crossing his face, "no, I don't think there's any reason to assign a different attorney, unless the attorney already assigned to the case or Ms. Ryerson specifically requests it. After all, if Les wanted the best for her..." He swatted the air around him as though he could slap down the muffled laughter from some of the other board members. "...Well, even if he's made the offer without going through proper channels, far be it from us to override him. Very good. Thanks, Consuela. We'll be in touch."

He hung up the phone with a smile. "Done!" he announced.

* * *

"You okay?" Selina asked.

Bruce looked up, just in time to catch his daughter as she raced toward his knee with the precision of a guided missile. And if he hugged her a bit more fiercely than usual before he set her back down again, it was only because it felt like ages since he'd last seen her that morning.

"We would have come down to the cave," Selina continued, "but I wasn't sure if you wanted company."

Bruce nodded. "It's probably just as well you didn't." The sofa cushion sagged as Helena clambered up and climbed into his lap. Bruce sighed. "Like mother, like daughter," he said with a faint smile. "Just make yourself at home, why don't you?"

"Well, if you're inviting…" Selina sat down next to him. "…or not?" Selina asked, the playfulness vanishing from her tone.

"I don't mind, Selina," he said, trying to coax some lightness into his own voice, but failing. "I…" He let out a long breath. "I'm honestly not sure how much more of this I can take. Or how much more I'm willing to." He shook his head. "I think I'd prefer they haul out the rack and thumbscrews at this point; there are techniques for coping with physical pain."

She reached toward his shoulder, stopping a fraction of an inch away. "Um… may I?" Bruce shifted marginally closer. She brought her hand down gently at the juncture where his shoulder met his neck. "Hey," she said, "you're pretty tense, yet. You know that, right?"

Bruce nodded. "It went away earlier, but…" Helena squirmed and he lowered her gently to the floor.

Selina made a sympathetic sound. "Trust me?"

"What?"

She smiled. "One of my brighter moves was taking a stress management workshop, a few years back. I know a little bit about massage therapy. If you'd like…"

Bruce considered. He looked over to where Helena had clambered atop an ottoman footstool. She was lying on her stomach, arms and legs dangling, clearly enjoying herself. He smiled. Then, he leaned a bit closer to Selina, turning to present a bit more of his back. As Selina set to work on his shoulders, he felt his muscles relax. He sighed.

"Better?" Her fingers found a tension knot and she set about working it out.

"Don't stop." Bruce murmured.

Selena gave a throaty laugh. "As you command…"

Bruce slumped. "I'm… Honestly? At this point, I don't… ah! …actually care whether I pass or fail. I… ah! …just want this to end."

Selena's hands moved further down along his shoulder blades. "How much more can there be?"

"Don't ask." He let out a long breath as Selina continued to work. "I'm not sure I want to find out."

"You could walk away."

He shook his head. "I don't quit."

"Ah. So this is all pretty much grousing until you get your second wind, then."

Bruce's gasp ended with a growl.

"Well?"

"I… suppose so."

"Okay. Just so we're clear." Her fingers were halfway down his back now. She laughed. "Honestly, you've handled this a lot better than I would. If you did decide it was too much, I wouldn't blame you for backing out now. Nobody could say you didn't give it your best shot."

Bruce nodded an acknowledgment. "Even so," he sighed, "if I don't make it, it'll be because they made that decision—not because I quit before I heard the verdict."

"Mmmm… from what I hear, that's a bit of change from the last time."

For a moment, Bruce wasn't sure what she meant.

"JLA? Protocols?"

"Oh." Bruce shook his head. "No, that was different. Then, I'd destroyed their trust. The vote didn't matter. Unless they had unanimously wanted me in—and I knew that they wouldn't—the wisest course of action was to leave and give them a chance to cool off. Had I stayed… it would have hurt the League more than my departure."

"And now?"

"Now?" Bruce closed his eyes. "Now, I'm hoping that after more than three years, the GCPD has had their chance to cool off and I'll be able to regain their trust. Because, if I can't… then it really is over."

* * *

Chiarello looked up at the knock on his door. A moment later, it opened and a familiar face looked in.

"Commissioner." He rose to his feet. "Come in. I'm just about finishing up the background report, now."

Sawyer entered, her face serious. "What's your decision, Maury?"

"What?" Chiarello chuckled. "Can't take the suspense?" He shook his head. "You win, Commissioner. Damned if I'd be that stable if I'd seen a fraction of what he's been through. Or if I could have kept my cool nearly as well. I only got him to raise his voice once, you know that?" He frowned, noticing that her expression hadn't lightened. "What?"

Sawyer sighed. "Dr. Cinar doesn't agree with your assessment."

Chiarello sniffed. "Now, there's a shocker."

The police commissioner didn't smile. "Maury, I've made no secret of the fact that I want Wayne working for us, but I can't ram this through if he really isn't suited. So, in your opinion, if I were to order a second assessment—gave it over to Tate or Knowlton, this time—would it be reasonable to predict a similar outcome? Or do you think that they would interpret Wayne's reactions differently? And would it be willful blindness on my part not to give full weight to Cinar's initial report?"

"Well," Chiarello said slowly, "Cinar tends to go harder on candidates who didn't grow up in suburbia with two parents, a white picket fence, zero-point-four siblings, and a dog named Spot."

"Maury…"

"Okay, maybe a whole sibling gets a pass from him. You know what I mean. Wayne comes into his office; he's an orphan, unmarried, raised by a single man, has kids he adopted when they were past babyhood… My guess? It wouldn't have mattered about Batman _or_ Arkham. Cinar looked at his bio and made up his mind on the spot. Now, does Wayne have issues that _should_ disqualify him? Hell if I know. Maybe. Not based on my investigation—he passes that with flying colors—but I'm just one part of the picture." He frowned. "Give the file to Knowlton. Tate's only been here a couple of months. He doesn't know you like I do. If he thinks you want Wayne to pass, he'll pass him, hoping to get into your good books. Knowlton's going to be tougher than that, but he'll give Wayne a fairer chance than Cinar did. Still won't be automatic, but then… you don't want automatic, do you?"

Sawyer smiled. "Thanks, Maury. I look forward to seeing your report."

* * *

Bruce hung up the telephone quietly. Then he turned around and punched the wall. The broom that he had left leaning in a corner instead of returning to the closet fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Bad news?" Selina asked from the doorway.

Bruce spun to face her, his anger giving way to resignation. "Good and bad," he said, "and I'm not sure which is which. That was Chiarello. I failed the psych evaluation. They're redoing it tomorrow at nine. I was this close to telling them to let it stand."

"You could call them back," Selina pointed out. "I mean, if you're really ready to drop it, then drop it."

Bruce sighed. "I'll admit it's tempting, but if this is something that I can do, then…" He took a deep breath. "If nothing else, my time out of costume has forced me to address various weaknesses that I've overcompensated for in the past. We… know that I'm not the easiest person to know. My regular coping strategies aren't particularly adequate for the long-term, but until recently, I'd never bothered to take the time to learn new ones. Now, I've at least made a start."

Selina nodded. "Okay, but…?"

Bruce sighed. "I need to improve my teamwork, too—and not with a team that will accept my orders because they've done so in the past." He shook his head. "I have my blind spots and my… issues. I need to work with people who are going to be willing to challenge me, instead of just repeating 'He's Batman; of course he's right.'" Bruce winced. "I can't think of a bigger challenge than working with people who've witnessed one of my more spectacular failures. And," he let out a long breath, "no, I'm not looking forward to the experience. Which is all the more reason why I have to."

Selina nodded. "So… tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Bruce nodded back. "And let's hope that this is the end of it. One way or another."

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Lester Paxton arrived at PMWE. He'd passed an uncomfortable few hours in a holding cell with a number of unsavory-looking individuals, before being transported to Central Booking. They'd handcuffed him for the trip, he remembered. He'd been seething. Did these idiots have no idea who he was? They'd confiscated his wallet and cell phone at Central. He'd had to call his wife collect from a payphone to get her to contact his lawyer. He was glad he'd made sure to tell her to call his squash partner, Cliff Maxwell, rather than the 24-hour line for PMWE's in-house counsel. This was going to have to be on his dime, and Cliff was one of the best.

As for False Face, Paxton hadn't seen him. Doubtless, he'd been in some other cell. Just as well. Paxton felt like he could have cheerfully killed the man with his bare hands. Well, maybe someone else had… No. He doubted he could be that lucky.

It had been 9 AM before he'd been brought before a judge, 9:15 before he'd been released on $75,000 bail. He'd been seething, but he'd paid it. Then he'd gone home to shower and change his clothes before showing up at the office. He supposed he could have stayed home, but he wasn't about to put his personal issues ahead of business. Besides, he needed to speak to Chester and find out exactly what had happened that night. He'd been trying him since Saturday night, but the VP of Marketing wasn't returning his calls. Maybe Chester was afraid to face him? Paxton couldn't blame him, but he still needed to know exactly what had happened with Ryerson. Zack had been no help…

"Oh, Mr. Paxton?" his assistant called to him when he would have stalked into his office without his usual 'Good morning'.

Paxton sighed. "Yes, Mariette?"

Mariette tensed at the testy note in his voice. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Lucius Fox asked to see you at your earliest convenience. He did say that he needed to talk to you in person."

"Oh, did he, now?" Paxton demanded.

"Yes, sir."

His jaw set. "Very well," he said. "As soon as it's convenient, I'll be delighted to accommodate his request." Without another word, he marched into his office and shut the door behind him. Once inside, he hit Ron Chester's extension. It rang twice.

"Hello. This is Ron Chester—"

"Chester, you idiot! Because of your incompe—"

"...telephone, or in a meeting. Please leave your name, telephone number, and a brief message, and I will return your call at the earliest convenience."

Everything was 'at the earliest convenience' and none of it was convenient enough for him! "You know damned well who this is, Chester!" he snarled. "Call me!"

He slammed the phone down.

* * *

"Okay, so as I understand it, when you were in your teens, you left Gotham alone."

Bruce sighed. "Yes."

"Why?"

"It was necessary." The new psychiatrist—Knowlton, he'd said his name was—regarded him thoughtfully, waiting for him to elaborate. "I'd already learned as much as I could in Gotham without calling too much attention to myself. I didn't want to be known as a multiple… let's call it 'black belt,' even though that designation is meaningless in a number of martial art disciplines. To learn my skills discreetly, I had to go to the source."

"Meaning the Far East."

"Meaning wherever it was necessary to go," he clarified. "India, Tibet, Japan, Brazil… France…"

"Did you tell anyone where you were?"

"Yes and no." Bruce smiled slightly. "Alfred was former British Intelligence. I tried to cover my tracks, lay false trails, give him just enough information to let him know that I was alive and well, but not so much that he could track me. Except that on my birthday, without fail, there would be something. A card, a phone call, a messenger at the door of whatever hotel or hut I was living in with instructions on where to go to pick up a wire transfer—there was a point where I wondered whether he'd implanted a microchip in my arm before I left. It wasn't until years later that he let on that he had a network of former intelligence contacts scattered across the globe—all of them keeping an eye on me."

"Mmmm…" Knowlton made a notation. "Now, I know you've indicated that, at a certain point, each of your sons has needed to strike out on their own, too, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you try to keep them at home?"

"I tried to keep them safe. On my terms, not theirs—although it's taken me time to recognize that. They refused to accept those terms."

"And you let them go."

"What else could I have done?"

Knowlton frowned. "I'm not passing judgment, Mr. Wayne. Just clarifying. After they left… what happened? Did you wash your hands of them or…"

"That's not a fair question," Bruce said, trying not to sound defensive. "Dick was angry at my decision. I was angry at him for not abiding by it. I didn't want to make things worse by chasing after him before he was ready to talk, so I waited for him to come back, not realizing that he was waiting for me to apologize. Jason was…" He closed his eyes. "I took Jason in, partly—mostly—because, after Dick left, I felt… alone. I'd grown used to facing the night with a partner. When I let Jason into my world, I thought that he reminded me of Dick. In some ways, he did. He was a quick study, absolutely fearless, athletic, determined…"

"But…"

"But he really reminded me of me. Or, of a me that I could have been, had my circumstances been even slightly different. Alfred taught me to channel my anger and… and grief… into something productive. In Jason, it festered. I didn't see it then—probably because my own coping skills were more on the level of masking the symptoms."

"Clarify?" Knowlton asked.

Bruce nodded, noting in passing that Knowlton wasn't asking anywhere near as many leading questions as Cinar had. "I took my anger and pain and kept them tightly reined in during the daylight hours. At night, I loosened those reins, but never fully let go. Jason had the same anger, but his control was more tenuous. In costume…" Bruce frowned.

"I'm not trying to be disingenuous," he continued after a moment's pause, "but it seems to me that the best way to explain it touches on the reason that I—that any police academy candidate—needs to go through this testing procedure. If you're going to sanction an individual to use violent—at times, lethal—force, then you're going to do your best to make sure that the person in question doesn't abuse that sanction. I rarely had to worry about that with Dick. He could be hot-headed at times, and it occasionally made him reckless—but he knew that there were certain lines that he couldn't cross, no matter how angry he was or how… justifiable… it might be. Jason didn't have that knowledge. Or, perhaps, his code didn't align with mine. I don't know." Bruce closed his eyes. "When I realized that the problem went beyond… hotheadedness, I put him on inactive duty. I didn't know how to handle the situation. Alfred was trying to help, but I felt that we were both losing him. I knew he needed more. I was debating asking one of my colleagues in the Justice League whether they knew of someone who could be discreet if certain topics came up."

"Your vigilantism."

Bruce nodded. "And then," he continued, "things came to a head. Joker escaped and made his way to the Middle East. Somehow, he'd acquired a nuclear weapon and was intent on selling it to terrorists. I went after him—not realizing that Jason was also headed that way."

"On his own?"

"He'd gone for a walk in the neighborhood where he'd grown up. One of the neighbors recognized him and gave him a box of keepsakes that had been entrusted to her. He discovered that his mother might be alive and in that general area. He decided to go after her. I don't know whether he tried to talk to me and I was too preoccupied, or whether he thought I wouldn't want to help him, but he left without a word. I ran into him in Lebanon."

"If he had approached you, would you have helped him?"

Bruce leaned forward angrily. "Of course!"

"Even though it might have meant that you'd lose another partner?"

"Do you seriously…?" He caught himself. Knowlton had only just met him today. Knowlton _didn't_ know him well enough to realize how offensive that question was. "I'd adopted Jason on the assumption that he was an orphan. I'd never have tried to keep him from his biological parent, if he'd wanted to be with her."

"And if he hadn't wanted it? Suppose that he'd met her and she'd wanted very much to be a part of his life, but he'd wanted to stay with you?"

Bruce frowned. "In that situation… I don't know what I might have done. I think I would have pushed him to go with his mother, but for all the wrong reasons. If I had discovered in my teens that one of my parents had somehow survived the shooting and been living under an assumed name, and wanted me to come live with them, I wouldn't have thought twice. I would have jumped at the chance. And I think I would have projected that onto Jason, without consideration for other factors."

"I see," Knowlton said, making another notation. "And today?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "It still wouldn't really be his decision. It would be up to a court to decide—although they'd consider his wishes. But I'd like to think that I'd support his decision, whatever it was. Not," he pressed his lips together and blinked hard, "that this scenario would ever stray from the hypothetical, at this point."

Knowlton nodded. "Sometimes, it can be hard to know what the right course of action is—particularly when there isn't an actual playbook."

"If you're trying to draw a parallel between childrearing and vigilantism, it's not the same," Bruce pointed out. "Doing what I did each night, I may have written my own… playbook, but I followed the rules I'd set out for myself. With my sons, each required a different playbook and the rules didn't necessarily stay consistent."

"Do you appreciate routine?"

Bruce frowned. "I think it's fair to say that routine keeps things on track. If I know that as soon as I come back from patrol, I need to log my findings, it means that any vital information will be accessible in my files, as needed. However, while I do recognize the need for schedules, routines, and the like, there has to be a certain amount of flexibility built into the system or it becomes unnecessarily restrictive."

"Point taken," Knowlton smiled. "Now, during the No Man's Land, I know that just about everyone's, um, playbook got tossed out the window. How did you cope under those circumstances?"

Bruce thought back. "Well," he said, feeling his shoulders relax, "for the first three months, I wasn't actually in Gotham…"

* * *

"Sir, I have Mr. Fox for—"

Paxton bit back an expletive. "Keep taking messages, Mariette!"

There was a pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Paxton."

"What?" He couldn't believe this. "Now listen to me, Mariette," he said, rage propelling him halfway out of his leather-upholstered swivel chair. "I have had one hell of a weekend, a sleepless night, and I am not dealing with Lucius Fox today. Now tell him whatever you like: I'm with a client; I'm volunteering at charity carwash, hell, I don't care, I'm taking investors on a tour of one of our overseas plants. But I am not taking Fox's calls. Got it?"

His office door opened and Fox stepped inside. "We have to talk, Lester."

Paxton settled back into his chair with a glower, and tried to force a smile. "Why of course, Lucius. How can I be of assistance?" He busied himself with one of the reports on his desk.

Lucius reached across the desk and pushed the report down. "You can explain to me why I've been fielding calls from reporters all morning, asking me to comment on whether it's true that you hired an impersonator to discredit our president emeritus. You can tell me why a candid shot of you standing before a judge at a bail hearing is currently getting thousands of rechirps on Tweeter and nearly as many shares on Facespace. I haven't checked Topplr, but I'm fairly sure that there'll be plenty of reblogs there. Lester… what the hell is going on?"

Paxton blinked. "What?" he barked automatically. "That's—"

"I've also been getting calls from some of our shareholders, several of whom have pointedly reminded me that name change or not, this company is still _Wayne_ Enterprises, whether or not we stuck 'Patrick Morgan' in front of it. They've been demanding answers and I'd like a couple myself. Lester, again, what the hell is going on?"

Paxton matched Lucius glower for glower, but it was he who looked away first. "I'll handle it," he said slowly. "Give me a couple of hours and—"

"Actually," Lucius interrupted, "maybe you should take all the time you need. Away from the office. Things have been stressful lately. Maybe," he mused," you should just take it easy and concentrate on getting this situation resolved."

"Excuse me?"

Lucius's expression hardened again. "Go home, Lester. Take a rest. Concentrate on rectifying this matter. Because until I can go back to our shareholders and tell them that the photo has been taken completely out of context, I don't want you on the premises."

"Now just one moment," Paxton blustered. "You can't just—"

"I'm just stating a preference, Lester. Of course, I can't force you to leave." His voice hardened. "But I'm certainly willing to put the question to the shareholders, if you wish."

Paxton seemed to deflate. "That won't be necessary, Lucius. I'll get my things together and be out in an hour."

* * *

It took barely fifteen minutes for the judge to rescind the temporary restraining order. Bruce listened as Rae confirmed to the judge that they were prepared to drop the harassment suit (that he hadn't wanted to pursue in the first place, but which Rae had urged him to file anyway), provided that she leave them alone in future. He nodded as Rae added that they'd prefer not to pursue their own restraining order against Sharon Ryerson and would consider the matter closed, so long as they had Ryerson's assurance that she would cease any attempts to contact or harass him in future.

"My client is far from insensitive to Ms. Ryerson's circumstances," Rae was saying. "We'd like to move on, and we have no wish to make things more difficult. But this behavior needs to stop."

The judge glanced toward the table where Sharon and her lawyer sat. "Mr. Shaw?"

The lawyer rose to his feet. "My client is in agreement, Your Honor."

"I'd like to hear that from Ms. Ryerson herself." She fixed her stare on Sharon Ryerson. "On the record, Ms. Ryerson, do you assert that you will have no further contact whatsoever with Mr. Wayne, and that you will stop any kind of harassment directed at him?"

Ryerson looked like she was about to argue, but a quick frown and barely perceptible headshake from her lawyer stilled her. She nodded stonily. "I will, Your Honor."

The judge nodded. "Very well. The TRO against Mr. Wayne is rescinded as of this hearing. Ms. Green, have you prepared a written order?

Rae nodded back. "I have, Your Honor."

The judge smiled and automatically held out her hand for it. "Thank you, I'll sign it now and enter it into the record." Her gaze flickered from one table to the next. "Thank you all," she added. "It isn't very often that the parties are able to reach an amicable agreement in a case like this. Ms. Ryerson, you are to be commended for your decision." She smiled and turned to the bailiff.

"All right, you can call the next case on the docket..."

* * *

"You can't be serious, Kendricks," Paxton stood in his living room, fighting the urge to fling the phone through the picture window. If he did that, he'd never hear Kendricks' explanation and it had to be a doozy. "I'd always presumed that I could count on you to back me. Surely your corporate loyalty—"

"—lies with the president emeritus and acting CEO of my corporation," Kendrick cut him off smoothly. There was a faint self-righteous note in his tone. "I'm sorry, Lester. I can't support your course of action."

"So that's it," Paxton sneered. "You're afraid of a little bad press now. Well, this media brouhaha will blow over, and when it does, I'll remember just who my friends were who stood by me in my hour of need."

"That's… highly commendable, Lester," Kendricks coughed. "I'm sure Mr. Wayne will, too."

"You're throwing your lot in with him? That… That…"

"I believe the term you're looking for is 'majority shareholder'? Perhaps 'president emeritus'? 'Batman?' Because frankly, I'd rather count Batman among my friends than my enemies." His tone hardened. "That would apply to both past and present incarnations. Nothing personal, Lester. I'm sure you understand."

"How dare you! Why, I could—"

"Save it for the press conference. Goodbye, Lester. Stay safe." The phone went dead as Paxton started sputtering again.

How dared he? How dared he! A press conference? As if— All at once, Paxton began to smile. The best way to get a media furor to die down was to give them something even bigger to get their teeth into. He was smiling as he typed 'Gotham Herald' into 411-dot-com.

"Yes, may I have the city desk please? Yes, I believe I do have a possible story for you. Doubtless you're aware that it's been barely six months since Bruce Wayne was released from Arkham Asylum. The poor man spent two years in therapy before they released him, and well, Arkham _does_ have a reputation for releasing their patients somewhat… prematurely. What? Yes, I'm getting to the point. It seems that Mr. Wayne is now attempting to join the GCPD, and I don't know about you, but the idea of a recent Arkham inmate with a propensity for violence being legally sanctioned to carry a firearm fills me with no small amount of trepidation…"


	13. 12. Ashes and Roses and Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has cleared one hurdle in the application process, but it only gets harder from here! He has many supporters on the force, but his detractors are coming out of the woodwork too, and Maggie Sawyer is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta. Special thanks to PJ for details on police procedures.
> 
> The list of police commissioners is taken directly from Wikipedia. Stuart Knowlton and Diane Goodrich are original characters.
> 
> "Chasing What's Already Gone" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Ashes and Roses album (Zoe, 2012).

_I stared back at myself_  
Feeling as empty as I've ever felt  
But I keep on going and I hope I've learned  
More of what's right than what's wrong  
It's ashes and roses and time that burns

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Chasing What's Already Gone"_

**Chapter 12—Ashes and Roses and Time**

Dr. Stuart Knowlton walked into the commissioner's office with a tight smile on his face. Sawyer looked up expectantly. Most people wouldn't have spotted the almost imperceptible tapping of her left index finger against the blue stone of her class ring, but Knowlton's eyes missed nothing. Out of courtesy, he pretended not to notice.

"Well?" she asked.

Knowlton shrugged. "I can see why the preliminary assessment found him unfit. There are a lot of problematic issues in Wayne's background, but then, you knew that already."

Sawyer nodded unhappily. "I'd hoped that it wasn't as serious as it looked," she admitted. "But—"

Knowlton shook his head, but he was smiling. "I can't deny the facts, commissioner. But I _can_ take issue with the earlier conclusions. If Wayne were a fresh recruit, we wouldn't be having this conversation—because the question uppermost in my mind would be 'if he's like this now, what's he going to be like ten years down the road?' The thing is," his smile deepened, "he's _not_ a fresh recruit—not really. And for him, this is already more like fifteen years down the road. And I've had a lot of fifteen-years-plus veterans come through my office in considerably worse shape after experiencing maybe half of what he's seen to date." He paused for a moment, noting with satisfaction that Sawyer was no longer tapping her ring. "I'm passing him."

Sawyer nodded briskly, fighting the urge to grin. "Thank you, Stuart. If you brought your report with you, I'll need it to distribute to the panel."

For answer, Knowlton handed her the manila folder he'd been carrying under his arm. "I notice you said 'to the panel,' and not 'to the other panel members,'" he remarked.

The commissioner sighed. "I'm recusing myself from this one, Stu. I'm a bit too invested in the proceedings. If he passes this next hurdle, like the others, it's got to be because he's qualified and not because I want to give him a smoother path than he has the right to expect."

Knowlton nodded. "Fair enough, ma'am. Have a good evening."

Halfway out of the room, he turned back to face her. "By the way," he said lightly, "I did have several arguments marshalled against the idea, if you had been planning to sit on the panel. Much as I'm happy not to have to fight you, I can't help feeling just a bit…"

"Disappointed?" Sawyer asked.

"Cheated. Good night, Commissioner."

Maggie waited until the door closed behind him before she allowed herself a brief chuckle.

* * *

The next day, things weren't looking quite as rosy. It fell to Deputy Police Chief Diane Goodrich (retired) to deliver the news. "We voted," she said. "Final tally, four in favor, three opposed."

Maggie sighed. Under most circumstances, a majority vote carried the day, but not when it came to police admissions. "How soon can we convene a hearing, then?"

Diane tilted her head. "You're asking? I thought sitting behind the big desk meant you get to call the shots."

Maggie's lips twitched. "As I recall, Di, someone told me that my orders would go a lot farther if my people had the illusion of being part of the decision-making process." She took a deep breath. "Very well. The hearing will convene the day after tomorrow at nine o'clock, sharp. And Di, I'm making it closed-door, invitation only."

A steely eyebrow shot up. "That's... irregular."

"But not unprecedented," Maggie countered. "Wayne's made his fair share of enemies, many of whom are capable of concealing some fairly lethal devices that could get through our safeguards. I'm not exposing him to any unnecessary risk—nor our people, for that matter."

"Understood," Diane nodded. "We'll keep it quiet." She frowned. "You really want him on board, don't you?"

"He's the best. Or, at least, he used to be."

Diane grunted. "Retirement's not for everyone." She blew air out between her teeth. "I've served under the best and the worst. Loeb, Grogan, McKeever," she counted on her fingers, "Gordon, Vane, Gordon again, Pauling, Gordon," she stopped fighting her smile, " _Essen-_ Gordon, Gordon _again_ , Howe, Gordon yet again, Akins…" she sighed. "When Jim left for good, I felt like it was time for me too, but I didn't want to take the plunge until I knew the city was in good hands. With Akins… I wasn't sure. He was all right in the beginning, but there was something… I don't know. I thought I was still needed, even though I was beginning to feel my age. When you stepped up, it was time." She frowned. "You really care about this one, don't you?"

Maggie nodded. "I'm doing my best not to let it cloud my judgment, but, yes. I do. I like the idea of Batman working hand-in-hand with us. Every year, we lose a lot of good officers to natural attrition. We lose skills and general knowledge that we don't realize we've lost until we start reinventing the wheel. I don't mean book smarts—those are easy to teach. I'm talking about life experience, patterns, things it takes a lifetime to learn to recognize, and then the people who've lived that lifetime leave and their expertise goes with them. Batman has that missing knowledge and then some."

"But does he want to share it?"

"I think so. Or at least, I think he sees it as an acceptable cost for the chance to make a difference." She sighed. "Look, at the end of the day, I want him out on the streets, doing what he does best, and I don't want to have to put out an APB on him for probation violation when we're on the same side. I also don't want him out there if he can't or won't take direction. So…"

"So," Diane nodded. "All right. That's fair." She frowned.

"Getting back to your earlier comments," Diane continued, "you'll want to arrange for increased security for the hearing, I take it?"

Maggie nodded back. "Inside and out. I'll take care of that."

"Good." She raised two fingers to her temple. "I'll be seeing you… Commissioner."

After Goodrich left, Sawyer let out a long sigh. Then she reached for the telephone. She had to call Mr. Wayne to tell him the news.

* * *

"Helena wants to say goodnight," Selina said, leading her daughter into the study.

Bruce smiled and held up his index finger, asking for a minute. "So," he said into the telephone, "what does that involve? I see. Yes, I'll make myself available. Thank you, Commissioner." His voice took on a lighter note. "Yes, that is encouraging. Yes. Thank you." He hung up the phone and bent a bit lower in his chair, holding out his arms for Helena.

Helena hesitated for a moment before toddling forward, picking up speed with each step.

"That was Sawyer, I take it?" Selena asked, as Helena faceplanted on Bruce's shin.

Bruce nodded, smile fading. "I've passed the preliminaries," he said, "But the panel vote wasn't unanimous. So there'll be a hearing."

"Oh." Selina studied him carefully, trying to gauge his thoughts. "That's... bad?"

Bruce hesitated. "Not necessarily," he replied. "They hold hearings when there's even one dissenting vote on the panel. However, while it's convened, I'll need to be close to where the proceedings are taking place—in case they need to clarify any of my previous statements."

"Well, at least you'll get to explain," Selina said. "So… what, they'll meet and discuss things, and then call you in at the end if there's anything they're not sure of?"

"No. They'll meet and I'll be expected to sit outside the room where the hearing takes place. They may ask me to step inside at any time and for any reason."

Selina winced. "I had one teacher who would give us a pop quiz on Mondays. On Tuesday, she'd call us up to her desk, one by one and review it while we were standing there. She tried to talk softly, but if you sat in the front row, you got to hear a few things that weren't any of your business. I used to hate it."

Bruce nodded. "For all I know, everything will be straightforward and I'll be wasting several hours awaiting a summons that never comes. Or they might call me in every five minutes. I just… have no way to prepare for this beyond being there at the appointed time and being prepared to review everything that was in my application."

"In other words," Selina's lips twitched, "you're pretty much going to be like every other recruit. Hang in there, handsome. You're in the home stretch."

* * *

Renee Montoya knocked on the commissioner's door and walked in without waiting for an invitation. "I just had a call from the _Herald_ ," she snapped, "asking me…"

"…to confirm whether Bruce Wayne had been accepted to the police academy?" Sawyer shook her head. "Take a number. We've been fielding calls since about ten last night. Of course, we aren't confirming or denying anything at the moment," she said, "or at least we'd better not be—but this won't stay quiet forever."

"Would it be so terrible if they found out that we had Batman on the payroll?" Renee asked. "I mean, is this really something that needs to be hushed up?"

"The application process is nerve-wracking enough without the media breathing down everyone's neck," Sawyer said firmly. "Expediting Wayne's application has put most of the relevant staffers under a hell of a lot of extra pressure. Neither they nor he will appreciate being in the center ring of a media circus. Now, if his application is approved, I'll prepare a brief statement to present at a press conference. If it's denied, I don't really think it's anyone's business. Mr. Wayne's been keeping a low profile up until now—it's not as though he's been mugging for the society pages. At this point, unless he wants to take things public, I'd like to do him the courtesy of respecting his privacy—for as long as possible."

* * *

Cassandra Cain chewed nervously on her lower lip as she typed with one finger: j… e… r… r… m… Wait. She frowned. That wasn't right. The 'e' and the 'r' were next to each other on the keyboard. And in 'Jeremiah', sometimes the second 'e' got swallowed up when people said it out loud. And 'r' was so often a double letter, and… She glowered and tried to find the backspace key. When she didn't spot it at once, she closed the window and opened a new email session.

Again, she began: j… e… r… _e_ … m… i… a… She stopped. "Jer-e-my-uh," she said aloud. She frowned. It didn't seem quite right, but when she pronounced it, she couldn't find a missing sound. "Jeremiah at… at…" she found the 'at' symbol and bit back a groan of frustration as the number 2 appeared in the email window. Rather than look for the backspace key, she closed the session and reopened it once more. Now, how did you get the signs on top of the numbers?

She needed to test it on something… ah! She clicked a familiar icon that looked a bit like a small notebook and a new window popped up. She was glad that Oracle had shown her how to save a file on her desktop, even if she couldn't remember the procedure now. _Shift_ with the '2'. Okay… jeremia ... She frowned. What was the rest of it? He'd told her. He'd written it down, but she couldn't make sense out of some of his letters. He'd said that it was easy to remember, because she probably used the search engine every time she went online… Oh! She remembered now. Triumphantly, she typed, jeremia ... She opened up a new tab and hit the homepage. That was it! Jeremia... at-sign... gigglemail... period... com. She attached the scan of her latest practice essay and typed, 'please tell how this is. Also where is back space key' she frowned. She needed another one too. She continued, 'and question mark.'

She hit "send" and smiled. Her smile faded a few seconds later when a message appeared in her inbox. "Barbara?" she opened voice chat. "What is… mailer demon?"

* * *

Maggie Sawyer arrived home at five-forty the next morning and, half-asleep turned on _Good Morning, Gotham: First News 5:30_. She was headed for the kitchen and a cup of herbal tea, when the voice coming over the television shocked her to full alertness in an instant.

"… _got 28 of our best and brightest killed three years ago. And now, the top brass wants to welcome him with open arms? I tell you, if I weren't so close to retirement, I'd quit today._ "

"What the HELL?!" she spat. The voice was distorted, she realized furiously. No way to _prove_ who it was… yet. Her eyes narrowed at the caption on the screen: GCPD officer agreed to comment on condition of anonymity. "Yeah, I just bet you did," she snarled.

She dialed the First Shift commander's line. "Sarge!" she barked. " _Yes_ , I saw it. I want a list of every officer within five years of retirement on my desk by the time I come in this afternoon—and I'll probably be in early. Meanwhile, _nobody_ outside of the Press Information Office is authorized to speak with the media. Period. Not about Wayne, not about policy, not about the weather. Am I being clear? Good. I should be in before you finish your shift." She sighed. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

She hung up the phone. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! And Sarge had been just as furious and appalled as she was, but she'd still come down on him like it was his fault. They'd probably never catch the guy, unless… unless… All at once, she began to smile. She checked her directory and called another number.

"Maury? Sorry to bother you at home. Listen… What? Yes, I saw it. That's why I'm calling. Do you, by any chance, have handy that telephone number I gave you at the start of the investigation?"

* * *

Unless he was travelling overseas and hopelessly jetlagged or being held captive in some arch-criminal's secret lair, Bruce had—even when he'd worn the cowl—usually been asleep at six in the morning. He was thus less than amused, when the phone rang at twenty-past. "You probably want to get an early start," Barbara's voice rang cheerfully in his ear. "Beat the crowds."

Bruce groaned. "Barbara," he snarled, "a long time ago, you informed me that you gave up your costume because you were tired of... I believe you said 'playing Wendy to my flock of lost boys'? May I suggest that you suppress your mother-hen instincts? At least until after sunrise?"

"Sorry, Bruce," Barbara said, the mirth in her voice belying her sincerity, "but you should get a move on. I wasn't kidding about the crowds. And today would be a very good day to make one of your more discreet entrances to GCPD."

"Barbara, if there's something you're trying to tell me, either say it directly or wait until I've had my coffee."

Barbara sighed. "Someone tipped off the media. There's a crowd of reporters camped around GCPD headquarters now, and it's going to get thicker the later it gets."

Bruce's knuckles whitened on the receiver. "Wonderful."

"I'm still trying to figure out how the leak happened. Sawyer told me she swore everyone she interviewed to secrecy, and I believe her. I don't think any of our people would blab in public, and maybe nobody else meant to either, but you know how it is: word gets around through the grapevine, someone goes home and talks to their spouse, who tells a close friend, who..."

"I'm familiar with the pattern." He sighed. "I suppose I should stop wasting time wondering how the breach occurred and just accept that it has, and move on from there."

"Yeah, finding the source of the leak is my worry," Barbara agreed.

"You don't have to do that," Bruce said sharply.

"Actually, I do. Commissioner's orders. Well, I mean, her exact words were 'I want to know how it happened and who's responsible, and I realize that you have accesses to resources and individuals that I don't. Can you make this happen?'"

Bruce could almost see her shrug.

"I said 'yes.' So, I'm doing some poking around. I mean, unless you want me to pass it over to the League."

Bruce covered his eyes with his hand. "No." He glanced at the clock. The hearing was scheduled for nine o'clock sharp and he needed to be alert and ready to explain anything they might need him to. Today definitely called for a cold shower and a strong coffee... or several. "I'm getting up."

"Good. Oh, and Bruce? Don't overdo the coffee. You don't want them to think you're jittery over this whole thing. Dick swears by apples and peppermint tea as pick-me-ups."

_Yes, Wendy._ "I appreciate your concern."

* * *

If he'd had the costume, it wouldn't have been difficult. Hell, if he'd thought he could get away with swinging into Sawyer's office on a Bat-line, he would have. But then, he was supposed to proving that he could play by their rules, take their orders, jump through their hoops. He snarled and adjusted the wig of sandy brown curls over his own hair and studied the effect. He shook his head. He wasn't about to start dying his eyebrows. If he kept his cap down until he was inside, he should be fine. He unscrewed the jar of adhesive and set to work on the moustache.

"What are you doing?"

Selina stood in the doorway, a peach silk bathrobe hanging open over a turquoise nightgown of the same fabric.

Bruce sighed. "Barbara called—"

"Oh, I was wondering—"

Bruce filled her in tersely. "It's winter. With a cap hiding my face, a long coat, and a different walk, I should be able to slip through undetected.

" _Or,_ you could give them an interview. Let 'em know you're back and ready to take on the world."

Bruce smiled. "Tempting," he lied, "but not today. I have enough to worry about without the media."

Selina shrugged. "You could say that if you can deal with the media first thing in the morning, the panel should be a breeze."

Bruce shook his head. "The panel won't be a breeze and I'm not putting myself through any more torture than I have to today.

"Mommy! Daddy!" Small feet padded softly down the hall carpet. Either Selina hadn't stretched the safety gate across Helena's bedroom door last night, or his daughter had already figured out how to neutralize it. No point commenting, unless he wanted another crack about how some things ran in the family.

He sighed tolerantly. Helena appeared to be an early riser. Clearly, some things couldn't be accounted for by heredity or environment. He bent down with a smile. "Good morning, Helena."

Helena bolted behind her mother.

Bruce blinked. "Helena?"

The little girl frowned. "Daddy?" She reached a tentative hand toward his face.

Bruce held still. "It's okay, Helena," he said, realizing what the problem was. Then, carefully, he tugged at the wig. "It's still me."

All at once, Helena broke into a broad smile. She took two purposeful steps forward. Then, with a knowing laugh, she gathered two handfuls of sandy curls… and yanked.

Selena laughed. Bruce sighed. "I have others," he murmured. "But… maybe I should wait until after breakfast to put one on."

"Good idea. I was thinking of whipping up a batch of pancakes. Sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful," Bruce admitted, "but according to Barbara, I shouldn't waste any time getting down there." He sighed again. "I'm going to have to microwave a frozen muffin, instead."

Selina nodded. As she hefted Helena up and headed for the stairs, she called over her shoulder, "Just remember to take it out of the foil, first!"

* * *

Sawyer hadn't exaggerated. The last time Bruce had seen this many members of the media in one place had been outside of Tim's high school at the beginning of the mob war. Come to think of it, a lot of the same faces from that day were there now. As he approached the steps, he took a moment to scan the crowd; it would have looked more suspicious to just walk right on past a crowd of reporters without batting an eye.

There were a few new people, but nobody he recognized from any of the national news shows. He'd rarely participated in press conferences as a member of the Justice League, but he'd still watched the footage. He hadn't expected that his story would be newsworthy enough to attract reporters from another county, and it appeared that he'd been right on that score.

He forced his face to remain blank as he made momentary eye contact with Summer Gleason. They'd had some good times together, and under other circumstances, he might not have minded catching up—if he could have been sure that their casual conversations wouldn't end up in some six-part exposé.

"What's going on?" he asked, affecting a South Boston accent. He glanced at the cameras. "You guys making a movie or something?"

One of the reporters looked him up and down and then, deliberately turned away. Bruce shrugged and continued inside.

Summer hadn't recognized him either. He knew that it would have been awkward if she had, but he still felt a momentary pang. When he'd first gotten out of Arkham, he'd relied on Caller ID and voicemail to screen his calls. He'd been prepared when the media had tried to contact him for a piece on "Life in Arkham" or "Beyond the Cowl." He'd never responded to the inquiries, and, as his story had fallen from the headlines, the calls had dwindled.

Summer had mailed him a card. Perfumed, with a pressed alstroemeria lily inside. On their last date, she'd worn the blossoms as part of her wrist corsage. The message hadn't been anything special—just something along the lines of 'Welcome back. Let's get together.' At the time, he'd considered calling her, but changed his mind at the last minute, unsure whether she was trying a sneakier way of gaining access to him for a story. Still, he'd appreciated the gesture.

"Can I help you?" A uniformed officer observed him, his face carefully blank.

Jerked out of his reverie, Bruce immediately remembered where he was. "I was told to report to room 125 at nine."

"It's only ten past eight," the officer remarked. "You're early."

Bruce nodded. "I wanted to avoid the crowd outside."

The officer shrugged and waved toward the front counter several yards ahead. "Give your name at the desk, grab a seat on the wall, and wait until someone comes out for you."

Bruce nodded again. He should probably lose the disguise before he did that. "Mind if I use the men's room?" he asked.

The officer shrugged again. "You've got time. Turn around. It's the door on your left." He spun on his heel and headed toward the counter he'd pointed out a moment ago.

Bruce watched him go. Then he went to remove his wig and beard.

Two hours later, he was seated outside room 125 on a hard wooden bench, trying to read the morning paper. There were two uniformed officers standing on either side of the door, and others positioned at intervals in the corridor.

The door opened and another blueshirt looked out. "Mr. Wayne? Could you step inside for a moment?"

Bruce folded the newspaper, left it on the bench, and followed the officer into the room.

Ten minutes later, Bruce re-emerged into the corridor and rested one hand on the back of the long wooden bench for a moment.

"How's it going?" a low voice asked him, as he took his seat once more.

Bruce looked up. "Barry?"

Detective Allen smiled. "I guess they figured it made sense to put me on security detail—seeing as I don't really know the city that well anymore. This is the first time I've really been back since the 'quake." He frowned. "What happened to the Mick's in Old Gotham?"

"It's still there," Bruce replied. "But they moved it three blocks west to the Old Dutch district."

"Ah."

Bruce was silent for a few moments. Then, "I thought you were here researching some crime lead."

"I am," Barry nodded. "I've spent the last few days going through the files for data that isn't online yet, but you know how that gets after the first few hours. You want to start skimming, only that's when you miss things, and I don't know about you, but when I take things too fast, I don't remember what I read anyway. So, this morning, when they asked if I could help out here, I figured a change of scene might do me good—and save them having to assign another officer who could be put to better use elsewhere."

Bruce grunted.

"Seriously," Barry said, "how _are_ you doing?"

Bruce looked directly into Barry's eyes. "How do you think?"

"Well, you look like you'd rather be swinging across Midtown right now."

Bruce sighed. "You always were a decent detective. Or is it just that obvious?"

"Both."

Bruce's lips twitched.

"There's an alcove at the end of the hall with some vending machines and a microwave. You want anything? Sandwich? Cup of coffee? Ramen soup?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not hungry. And I don't need anyone fussing over me either." A quick smile ghosted across his face. "Thanks, though."

"You know you're going to be okay, right?"

"I—"

The door opened. "Mr. Wayne? Would you step inside, please?"

Bruce rose to his feet with a sigh. "Good talking with you, Barry."

* * *

"I was a bit surprised when you called," the young man admitted when the front door opened.

Les Paxton stepped aside to allow his visitor inside. "I do appreciate your coming by," he smiled. "The thing about setbacks is that it gives a man a chance to know who his friends are."

Derek Powers smiled. "I understand. I hope you had no doubts about _my_ loyalty in all this."

Paxton looked away. "I had no doubts about _anyone's._ Foolish, I can see that now. No matter. You're planning to attend the gala, aren't you?"

Derek blinked. "I don't know how I could avoid it, between my work for the Foundation and my position with PMWE. I RSVP'd same day."

"Excellent," Paxton said with a fatherly smile. "I want you there."

"Mr. Paxton?"

"Call me 'Les,' Derek," he chuckled. "We've known each other long enough not to stand on formality." His chuckle quickly turned to a slight cough. "Circumstances being as they are, I'm afraid my own attendance will draw too much of the spotlight in my direction, when it needs to be pointed elsewhere. You've already proven yourself to have a good pair of eyes and ears. I want you to employ those at the gala." He frowned. "Keep a close watch on Wayne. Without being too obvious, I want to know how he looks, how he acts, who he talks to, what he talks about… But don't let him suspect that you're watching him. He's planning something, Derek, and I want to know what it is."

Derek smiled. "You can count on me… Les."

* * *

"Mr. Wayne, Councillor Riba has voiced a concern that we'd like to you address."

Bruce inclined his head politely toward Goodrich and then turned in Oliver Riba's direction. The councillor for Tricorner Island cleared his throat. "Mr. Wayne, you've never made any secret of your feelings about guns. How can you reconcile your distaste for firearms with the fact that, should your application be approved, you'll be expected to carry one in the line of duty?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "I dislike guns, Councillor. You're correct on that one. I think it's fair to say that in every occupation, there are likely to be a few tasks that a person dislikes. I'm not overjoyed at the idea of carrying a gun, much less using one, but I do recognize that there are times when it might be necessary." _Don't ask me for examples._

"Have you ever carried one before?"

_From the trophy room to the practice area and back._ "Not outside the manor. My grandfather was something of a collector, and my father after him."

Riba frowned. "And…?"

He steeled himself. He'd known that this question might come up. He'd prepared an answer in his head. Now that the moment had come, though, the words weren't as ready as he would have preferred. "After my parents were murdered, I didn't want to go near a firearm. When I came upon the trophy case, I was horrified. Or," he admitted, "perhaps 'terrified' would be more accurate. My first impulse was to destroy them. My second was to avoid the room."

"How old were you?"

"Eight." He straightened his posture. "When I was thirteen, I was walking past the room. The door was open and Alfred was unlocking the case. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me that he oiled them every few months. I watched him do the first. He started talking about basic gun safety and maintenance, even going so far as to show me the procedure. After that, I still didn't _like_ firearms, but I didn't fear them either.

"Did you ever fire one?"

"Rarely. As I said, I don't care for guns, but if necessary, I'll do what I need to."

"Did you ever use a gun as Batman?"

"Not with live ammunition. Tranquilizer darts, and those rarely."

"Would you? If we approve your application?"

Bruce frowned. "At this point, the question's moot. I'm not permitted to wear the costume at this time. As for down the road, I… can envision a scenario where I would need to change into costume while I had a firearm on my person. If there was no secure place to store it, then yes, I would keep it with me. However, I doubt that I would use it. With respect, I've been Batman for nearly two decades and not needed a gun. I'd suspect that, even if I were carrying one in costume, my first instinct would be to reach for a batarang over a revolver."

"Do you ever think that a gun is the answer?"

Bruce's eyebrows drew closer together. "I don't think that anything is _the_ answer. I would say that in a case of self-defense, a gun could be _an_ answer, but there are always options. The question is how many of those options can be perceived in field conditions."

Riba nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I've nothing further at this time."

Deputy Chief Goodrich smiled. "Don't go too far, Mr. Wayne. We may need you again."

Bruce ducked his head once and spun on his heel. Once he was safely outside in the corridor, he sagged against the wall and employed a basic relaxation technique. Then he returned to the bench and picked up his paper. When he turned the page, he noted, to his chagrin, that the ink had rubbed off on his sweaty palms.

* * *

Over the next three hours, they called him in another six times. When he emerged the fourth time, he discovered a SunDollars bag and a sealed Styrofoam cup with the same logo under his newspaper. The bag contained a chicken salad sandwich, three creams and three sugars, and a yellow post-it note with a jagged lightning bolt drawn in black ink. There was no other message. He looked around in irritation, ready to give Barry a piece of his mind, but there was a different officer on security detail now.

He'd almost finished half the sandwich before the panel ordered him inside for the fifth time.

* * *

Maggie Sawyer could have gone home hours ago, but illogically, she felt that she should be in the building when the panel reached its decision. It made no sense; they could call her at home just as easily as they could tell her in person, and probably even moreso. Still, she waited.

Finally, when the bright face of the Cathedral Square Clock—visible through her window, even from twelve blocks away—showed a quarter to nine, she heard rubber-soled boots striding purposefully toward her door.

A moment later, there was a knock, and Diane Goodrich stepped inside, her face unreadable. "Well, Mags," she announced quietly, "verdict's in."


	14. 13. From the Inside Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie Sawyer hates it when people hide things from her and she's about to let one person know in no uncertain terms. Jim Gordon has a few words of caution for Bruce that just might have him reconsidering his current course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to Elle Weiss for helping me out with penalties for drug possession in the 1980s. The "Weiss Laws" referenced in this chapter—while fictional—are modeled on the real-life Rockefeller Laws and named in Elle's honor. Thanks to PJ for help with officer training.
> 
> "When the Sand Runs Out" written by Brad Crisler and James LeBlanc. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their Feels Like Today album (Lyric Street, 2004)

_...People do it every day_  
Promise themselves they're gonna change  
I've been there, but I'm changin' from the inside out...

_And as the cold wind blows across the graveyard_   
_I think I hear the voice of my old friend whisper in my ear_

_I'm gonna stop lookin' back and start movin' on_   
_Learn how to face my fears_

— _Brad Crisler, James LeBlanc, "When the Sand Runs Out"_

**Chapter 13—From the Inside Out**

"Your blabbermouth is Sergeant Charles Hawking." Oracle spoke confidently into the voice scrambler. "From what I can see, he's currently assigned to permits."

"For the last 27 years," Sawyer replied. "But I suppose you found that out, too."

"Yes. After he was caught falsifying a report."

Sawyer fought down her irritation. After all, she'd told this person to find the culprit. She'd had no reason to assume that this "JLA Dispatcher" wouldn't conduct a more thorough investigation. "Do you have a motive?"

Oracle caught the testiness in the commissioner's tone. "Don't you?"

Sawyer let out a breath. "Don't."

"Sorry?"

"Don't," she repeated. "I'm not some rookie you need to coax along. I asked for your help, you agreed to provide it. I'm asking you for your insights. I want you to provide those as well."

This was pushing. "Not meaning to be rude, Commissioner," Oracle replied, "but all you asked me for was a name."

"You didn't stop your investigation with just a name," Sawyer countered. "I brought you on board because I thought you could get the job done. If you have a reason to keep this from me, explain. But if this is just because you like playing your cards close, that doesn't cut it. I needed your help for an internal matter. I won't deny it. But I do want to know how you arrived at those results. Because unless you also are planning to pursue deputy status, like it or not, you're going to have a bit of competition. My people need to know how to find out what you can find out. And when I go to IA with your findings, I'm going to need something better than 'an anonymous tip said it was Hawking'. Now let's have your information."

There was a long pause. "For the record, Commissioner, I applied to the police academy years ago. I didn't meet the minimum height requirement. And even if you somehow were able to relax that standard, you'd find that there were other considerations. Trust me. You don't want me at the Academy."

Sawyer allowed a smile to creep into her voice. "Are you done posturing?"

"P-P-Posturi…!?"

Even through the voder, Sawyer could hear the indignation. She chuckled. "So, you're not a computer. Unless AIs are programmed to sputter, that is. I didn't think you were, but I had to test it. Do you have a name, beyond 'Justice League Dispatcher'?"

This time, the pause was longer. "Oracle."

"Oracle," Sawyer nodded with satisfaction. "Nice to have an alias to go with the fake voice. Very well. I won't pry further. But I do need to know your findings. Unless you have a reason for keeping them to yourself beyond 'it wasn't part of our original agreement'. _Is_ there a good reason for you not to divulge your information?"

"No." There was a sigh. "I… guess not. Okay. I looked into the circumstances that led to Hawking having been assigned to permits, all those years ago. It looks like someone set him up to take a fall."

Sawyer frowned. "Go on."

"As I understand it, he filed a report stating that a suspect was arrested with 250 grams of cocaine on his person, when it was actually 25. Under the Weiss Laws, possession of up to 50 grams drew an automatic sentence of 10 years, but 50 grams or more meant 25 years to life."

Sawyer nodded as she listened. The Weiss Laws had meant harsher drug penalties, but had resulted in more convicted criminals than there were prisons to hold them. The laws had been struck down nearly a decade earlier—replaced by fines and shorter sentences. She still didn't know whether that was a good thing.

"The thing is," Oracle continued, "when I got a look at a scan of the report, the 'zero' in 250 is about a quarter of a millimeter lower than the rest of the type on the line. Today," Oracle continued, "I'd never be able to detect something of that nature. Not when you draw up your reports on a computer. But this is going back over 25 years, when mostly everything was still done on typewriters. Someone took that report, put the page back in the machine, and added an extra zero."

"You know," Sawyer said slowly, "it could also be that Hawkins typed up that report properly, and then changed his mind, put the sheet back in, and made that alteration himself."

"Knowing he'd have to account for 225 grams gone missing from the evidence locker that were never there in the first place? Besides, that zero looks different from the others in the report. Typewriters may not be as unique as fingerprints, but if you do a comparison, I think you'll find that the alteration was done on another machine." She paused. "It's a pity that the guy who reported the theft, Michael Dell, died during the Clench epidemic. It might have been worth talking to him."

"You can't prove that Dell had anything to do with it," Sawyer shot back automatically, even as she admitted to herself that if Hawking were innocent, odds are that he would have been set up by someone close to him and likely involved in the same case, _like his partner_.

"No," Oracle agreed. "I can't. Not conclusively. But you might want to check some of Dell's own reports. I think you'll find that the zero-keystroke appears the same on those as it does in the altered document. So, unless your culprit meant to frame Dell for framing Hawking—and I'm not saying it's not possible, but it's a lot more convoluted than it needs to be..." The electronic voice trailed off for a moment. "Plus, if the goal was also to implicate Dell, it's interesting that it doesn't look like anyone made another attempt when this one failed. At any rate," Oracle continued, "it's been my experience that most people who try to be that clever end by tripping themselves up."

"Mine as well," Sawyer agreed. She let out a long sigh. "If you're right, if Hawking's been stuck in permits for over 25 years for a mistake he never made, that kind of thing tends to make a person bitter." Her voice hardened. "I appreciate your input. I presume you have hard evidence to back up what you've told me?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to email it, or would you prefer delivering the hardcopy to me?"

This time, the electronic voice sounded amused. "You _have_ the hardcopy in your archives, commissioner. My report was sent to your personal email three minutes ago."

"What?" Sawyer demanded. "I never gave you…"

The connection terminated abruptly. Commissioner Sawyer gave her phone a murderous look. She hated it when people hung up on her in mid-sentence.

* * *

"I was in the neighborhood," Dick grinned, when Bruce opened the front door. "Thought I'd pop in."

Bruce's lips twitched. "You're late. Tim and Cassandra have been here since four."

"They didn't have to fight rush hour traffic all the way from downtown."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you were in the neighborhood."

"Hey. It's a big neighborhood."

"Yes," Bruce said dryly. "Particularly if you define 'neighborhood' as everything between Blackgate and Brentwood." He moved aside to allow Dick to come in.

"Well, it feels like a much shorter distance when I'm taking the rooftop route instead of trying to drive through." His expression turned serious as he stepped into the foyer. "How are you holding up?"

Bruce sighed. "It's the waiting. I didn't want this in the first place. The results shouldn't matter to me one way or the other. If I passed, I'll be spending the next few months jumping through hoops. If I didn't, then after the hearing next summer, I'll be dealing with other… complications."

"That's true."

"And it's not even as if I didn't have those same complications when I started. I knew that if I were found out, I'd be arrested on the spot." He sighed. "I didn't want that, but I knew it was a factor. Then I earned Jim's confidence, and when he became police commissioner, I put that concern aside. I got… used to that acceptance. Until Akins." He stopped. "And I admit that there were many things that I could have done that might have cemented a working relationship with him. When Jim retired, I didn't think anyone could replace him. I… was so… caught up in comparing Akins to Jim and watching whether he could… could…" Bruce looked away. "…could prove that he was suited to the job, that it didn't occur to me that, perhaps, Akins had similar doubts about working with a known vigilante. The same sort of questions I'd tolerated from Jim, I resented from Akins. I resented having to explain myself to him, and yet I expected him to follow my advice without question."

"Hey." Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder as they started out of the foyer and toward the study. Bruce let out another sigh.

"Bottom line?" Bruce continued. "What I was doing out there was never legal, but with the GCPD's tacit approval, I could overlook that. I lost that approval under Akins. If I'm to have any hope of regaining it under Sawyer, I need to do this. With or without it," he admitted, "I intend to be back in the costume this summer. I'd prefer to do so without courting arrest. Particularly since they will have a fairly good idea of where to start looking for me. And who to question."

"If it comes to that," Dick said, "I think we can deal."

"That's not the point," Bruce countered. "I don't like running away, but I won't countenance you, or anyone else, dealing with the fallout from my actions." He stopped and turned to face Dick. "I… might have fought my placement at Arkham harder, had I understood what those two years would cost _you_."

For the barest instant, Dick flinched. When he spoke though, his voice was clear and confident. "You probably wouldn't have understood it, or said anything, if not for the perspective you gained in those two years… not to mention the last seven months," Dick replied. "Look. The past happened. We know that. But there's no point rehashing something we can't change. And…" he sighed, "it's so easy to say that if we had it to do over, we'd do it differently, only, if we had it to do over, without knowing the results of our choices, how could we help but make the same ones?"

"I…"

"Bruce. Let's say you could go back in time to the start of the mob war and tell yourself that if you made that appeal to the GCPD to follow you, it would be a disaster, a lot of people would die, and you'd end up in Arkham. Would you listen? Or would you assume that it was some trick—maybe one of Hugo Strange's illusions—and plow right on through? Or maybe acknowledge the risks but decide that every other contingency plan you had carried worse risks, and this was still the best chance?"

"I don't know," Bruce admitted.

"That's okay," Dick smiled. "I don't either. I just know that there's no point in belaboring it—because you _can't_ go back, anyway. So you may as well go on."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Give me a hand in the kitchen?" he asked. "I'd prefer not to sit waiting for a call which might not even come today, while everyone else is waiting and trying not to let me see that they're checking if I'm all right. If he were here, Alfred would probably be bringing out tea, around now. At least that's one item I've never had difficulty preparing."

Dick grinned. "You got it."

* * *

Bruce was just rinsing the teapot with boiling water when the phone rang.

Ten minutes later, Bruce and Dick entered the study with identical serious expressions on their faces. The others looked up expectantly.

Bruce looked around the room, panning from Jim to Selina to Cass to Tim, his expression unreadable.

Cass shifted forward, concern plain on her features. "Well?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "That was Sawyer," he confirmed. "I'm to report to the police academy for an assessment on Monday."

Cass frowned. "Sorry. You're… harder to read. Is that… good?"

Bruce's smiled then. "Yes," he admitted. "Yes, I think it is."

Then Dick threw an arm across his shoulders and the others clustered around him and, for once, he didn't feel crowded.

* * *

Sawyer was going over the section heads' reports when her direct line buzzed. She stopped trying to decipher Captain Gleason's typos and picked up. "Yes?"

"Glad to find you at your desk, Commissioner," the electronic voice responded.

Sawyer set the report down. "This conversation ends when we both say 'goodbye'. Are we clear?"

There was a pause. "Perfectly."

"What do you have for me, Oracle?"

"Your Sergeant Hawkins spoke to the media," Oracle said, "but he didn't tip them off. That would have been Lester Paxton."

Sawyer's jaw set. "How do you know this?"

"A bit of inference, a bit of deduction, and a bit of hard proof furnished by methods that won't be admissible in court."

The police commissioner sighed. "We haven't got the time or inclination to pursue that route in any case," she admitted. "Not that it matters. Paxton's in enough hot water already. Of course, this isn't _only_ a police matter, and we're not the only party involved that has options."

"I can pretty much assure you that neither Wayne nor PMWE will be interested in filing charges either. Wayne has enough on his mind. PMWE is already trying to downplay Paxton's activities. They won't want to call attention to any new mischief. I'm just calling because I thought you might want the full details before you jumped to conclusions about Hawking."

"Much appreciated." Her tone hardened. "I know what you people have done for this city in the past and I applaud most of it. There's something I need you to keep in mind, though—for Mr. Wayne's sake if nothing else. "

"I'm listening."

"I know his… team… is extremely results-oriented. That's commendable, but it also means that they cut corners to get those results, meaning that the prosecution's case isn't always as strong as it should be. Since his team isn't listening to this conversation right now—at least, I would _hope_ not—I'm going to have to dump everything on your shoulders, Oracle." She took a deep breath. "If you and they are out there to make our lives easier, then _make_ them easier. Tell us when you believe we need to obtain a search warrant. Let us know where the evidence is before you have your people remove it from the crime scene to show us. Help us make the charges stick so these creeps don't get back on the street so quickly."

"Commissioner, I…"

"Look," she said wearily, "I'm not talking about finding Scarecrow's latest chemistry lab. Of course the important thing there is to shut it down before he strikes again. Wayne will need to know the laws about illegal search and seizure and evidence tampering. I'd suggest you all help him review." She paused. "I'd hate for him to enlist your help in cracking a case, only to have the perp walk because the ironclad evidence was deemed inadmissible and the full confession was obtained under duress."

There was a pause on the other end. "Understood, Commissioner. Goodbye."

The connection terminated.

Sawyer looked at the receiver in her hand. "I said ' _both_ ,' she muttered with feigned irritation.

* * *

Dick and Tim had left to patrol and Selina was fixing dinner for Helena before heading out for a prowl of her own when Bruce walked into the cave to find Cass sitting at the computer, staring fixedly at the screen.

"Cass?"

She flinched, startled. "Sorry. Didn't hear," she said with embarrassment.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked.

"Sorry," she repeated. "I… wanted to do one more essay."

"Essay?" Bruce blinked. "For your GED?"

Cass nodded. "I meet Dr. Arkham tomorrow. He said… if I send tonight he can look. So… tomorrow… I don't have to wait for him to read. He'll already have... my... mistakes." She looked down. "Sorry. Came down to train. But the computer was on and I thought… I type so slow. I thought… maybe if I tried now… harder to write late at night and if I waited for home…"

Bruce waved aside her explanations with a frown. "I didn't know that Dr. Arkham was helping you to prepare. I thought that Tim and Barbara were—"

"Yes," Cass nodded again. "They help. But… they have other things. Dr. Arkham was… sick for so long. From the fire."

"I remember," Bruce said slowly. "I had no idea that you were meeting with him."

"You know I go to Saint Swithins. He was there. We… we talked. He saw me learn and wanted to… help. Helping me helps him. I think." Her face fell. "You… don't like him. I can stop."

Bruce shook his head. "I knew he'd been injured. I'd asked Dick to look in on him—which wasn't fair to him, with everything else he's taken on. He said he would, but I didn't push it. And heaven knows that despite my concern for Arkham's situation, I never went to visit him myself. It would have been awkward for both of us."

Cass frowned. "Awk-awkward? Clumsy? I don't…"

Bruce sighed. "I don't actually dislike him… now. When I was incarcerated, it was a different story. Still… I find the idea of visiting him… unappealing. I'm not good at finding the right words for those situations under the best circumstances. I'm not sure that any benefit could be found in my sitting there, waiting for him to say something while he's expecting the same from me."

"Okay?" Cass ventured. "I… I still don't see…"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'm trying to tell you that, regardless of my personal feelings for Jeremiah Arkham, I think it's a good thing that you're taking an interest. And if he's helping you, so much the better."

"Oh," Cass said with a surprised smile. "Okay." She hesitated.

"Was there something else?"

Cass looked down at her lap. "I… Nothing. Um… I mean… You already know… I mean… everyone says… I mean," she sighed. "I _know_ new… things are hard. For me… talking. Reading. Now… this. Hard. Frustrating. And… sometimes I want to stop. Go back to before. So… easy. Only… that's not me now. And… and even when I think maybe easier if that _was_ me… maybe I don't want easy. Or maybe easy isn't good. I don't know. But… for you? What you're doing. I…" She looked up. "Do you know what I… mean?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "At times," he admitted.

"How do you… deal?"

Bruce's lips twitched again. "When I came downstairs, I was planning to get the gloves and go a few rounds with the heavy bag," he gestured toward the exercise area.

"Oh. When I finish… this… maybe," she took a deep breath, "try… an opponent who fights back?"

That got her a genuine smile.

Halfway to the exercise area, he stopped and doubled back. "Cass," he said, "before you send off your essay, I could check it over for you. I mean, if you'd like," he added quickly.

Cass nodded. Bruce turned as if to go. "Batman!" It came out louder than she'd meant and she clapped a hand to her mouth as Bruce spun back.

"Yes?"

She took a deep breath, "if… things are… hard for you and you want to spar… okay to call me. I mean… if _you'd_ like." She took another breath. "Anytime."

Bruce nodded curtly, but his step was a bit lighter as he headed back to the training area.

* * *

Sawyer looked up at the knock on her door.

"You wanted to see me, Commish?" Hawking rumbled.

Sawyer nodded. "Come in, Hawk. Close the door behind you." She motioned to the chair before her desk. "Take a seat."

Hawking—or "Hawk," as he was generally known to his peers—obeyed with a resigned expression.

Sawyer leaned forward, her face stern. "You've been here long enough to know that all media inquiries are handled through the Press Information Office," she said levelly. "No exceptions. I'd like an explanation."

Hawk snorted. "No. You'd like a confession. Fine. Whatever. Someone's head's gotta roll. Might as well be mine. Hell, this time, I even did something to deserve it." He got up angrily. "Go ahead. Slap me all you want. What's it gonna be? A suspension? Knock yourself out. Oooh. With pay or without? Decisions, decisions. C'mon, Commish; what's it gonna be?"

The commissioner didn't bat an eyelash. "Actually, Sergeant Hawking, that depends on you."

The officer snorted. "Sure," he said. "Whatever. Guess you know how far you can take this without the union stepping up for me. Let's hear your worst."

"I found out what REALLY happened 27 years ago."

Hawking froze. "What?" he asked in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that you got a raw deal back then," she continued softly, "and that you were held back because of it." She waited for him to meet her eyes again. "That doesn't change the fact that you've violated protocol now by talking to the media." She paused, waiting once more until he nodded. "The thing is, if you hadn't, there's a good chance that I wouldn't have learned the truth about the earlier incident." She smiled. "Let's just say that the investigator I assigned to the case was _very_ thorough. So..."

She waited and watched as relief and apprehension warred on Hawk's face. He groped for the chair and clutched it to steady himself for a moment before he sat back down heavily. "So…?" he asked.

"So, I mean to announce in briefings that new evidence has come to light that pretty much erases that mark on your record. As far as your current indiscretion goes," she took a deep breath. "I'll leave that up to you. One month suspension with pay, followed by your immediate retirement," she paused, " _or_ …"

"Or?"

"One month suspension without pay. Upon your return, you receive a promotion to lieutenant and you work for one more year to establish yourself in the new higher salary and then retire—if you want to. I know most officers do after 30 years, but if you were to choose to stay longer, I wouldn't force you out, so long as you meet performance metrics. It's your call, Hawk."

Hawking's knuckles whitened as his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "Can I," his voice was almost a whisper, "can I have some time to decide?"

"Take the month, Hawk. Let me know by then." He nodded.

"I'll be making the announcements tomorrow," Sawyer continued. "Did you want to be here when I do? We can delay the suspension a day."

Hawking shook his head slowly. "No. No, that won't be necessary. Commissioner."

"Very well, Hawk," Sawyer said crisply. "I believe we're done here. Oh. Your badge, Sergeant? And your gun?" Her tone was apologetic. "I'm afraid I'll need those."

Wordlessly, Hawk passed them over. Then, with a dazed look, he stumbled out of the office.

Sawyer watched him leave with a sad smile.

* * *

"Rough night?" Dick asked, as he came in the window to find Barbara resting her forehead in her hand, elbow on her workstation.

Barbara sighed. "I think I tipped my hand too much," she admitted.

"Sorry?"

Barbara sighed. "You know how Sawyer asked me to find out who told the media about Bruce?"

Dick nodded. "Yeah, and…?"

"And," Barbara said, "I'm so used to digging up stuff like this when someone needs it that I didn't realize until afterwards that she never really meant me."

Dick blinked. "You lost me."

Barbara sighed. "When you gave her my contact information, you didn't tell her everything I do, right? Just that I was the person to talk to if she needed to get in touch with the rest of the… Caped Community?"

"Right." It hit him. "Oh. So when she asked you to get to work on it, she expected you to…"

"…Pass it on to Cyborg or the League or…" She shook her head. "But when I reported back, I was all 'I have the data. I found it. You asked _me_ ,' etcetera, etcetera. I just… forgot that she didn't know what I can do."

Dick nodded. "Is it that big a deal? I mean, so she knows that you're good with a computer. Unless she tricked you into confessing to cybercrimes," he frowned. "She didn't, did she?"

Barbara shook her head. "No. And it's probably _not_ that big a deal. She just got upset that I wasn't revealing everything I'd uncovered right off the bat and I ended up spilling more than I'd bargained for. I guess," she frowned, "I know why this is getting to me. It's because Sawyer had some information I never meant to give her, because I got careless and..." she let out a long breath. "...and I got careless once and ended up in this chair," she said at a rush. "And even though, on one level, I know that it's not my fault—that if I hadn't opened the door, Daddy would have, or Joker would have broken it down or whatever, I spent so much time beating myself up for letting my guard down, that when it happens now, I just… go back there." She shook her head. "Maybe that's one of the reasons it took me so long to relax with you," she squeezed his hand. "To let my guard down enough to accept that there could be an _us_. I got careless once and I got hurt, and I got it into my head that if I was extra careful from then on, I'd be okay."

"Makes sense," Dick nodded.

"Yeah, but it's still a hell of a way to live." She sighed. "So, that's why I'm upset. Well, that and she pretty much strong-armed me into leveling with her." She gave Dick a pained smile. "If that's what Bruce has been getting from her, I _don't_ envy him."

Dick nodded. "She's tough, I'll give you that, but she's also fair, so long as you play straight with her. That being said," his grip tightened on her hand, "I'm more than willing to tell her _straight_ out that she needs to lose your number or answer to me."

Barbara shook her head, but she was smiling. "Nah. I think I was being a little mysterious, just for the hell of it." She took a deep breath. "She did also ask me to pass along some… er… strong advice about crime scene investigation and interrogation procedures…"

* * *

"And I'm still having doubts," Bruce finished.

Alex nodded. "It sounds like it. I know we've discussed your feelings about guns before. Have you thought that you might be building up that distaste to the point where it overshadows everything else?"

Bruce considered. "It came up at the hearing, you know," he said slowly. "It would have been so… _easy_ to say that I couldn't countenance pulling the trigger, would never be able to point a gun, much less fire one, not even in self-defense. And that would have put an end to this little experiment."

Alex steepled his fingers and nodded encouragingly.

"If I can't handle a firearm," Bruce continued, "I won't pass officer training. If I'd told them on the spot that don't intend to ever use a gun, then they wouldn't have accepted me."

"That's right," Alex nodded again. "So, why didn't you?"

Bruce sighed. "Because it's one thing to refuse to fire a gun because I loathe them. It's another to refuse because I'm afraid. And I _am_ afraid." He took a deep breath and looked up at Alex, trying to read his expression.

Alex leaned forward, his posture conveying interest but betraying nothing more.

"I'm afraid," Bruce repeated. "I'm afraid of killing an innocent. I'm afraid of having to take a life. I'm afraid of being manoeuvred into a position where my refusal to use a firearm will cost lives." He took another deep breath. "I've told myself that I'd rather die than use a gun. But do I have the right to condemn others to death because I won't?"

"Do you consider it murder to kill in self-defense?"

Bruce hesitated. "No. But," he thought for a moment "It shouldn't make a difference whether a life was lost because I pulled a trigger or because I hit them too hard or… or…" his voice trailed off. "It shouldn't matter," he whispered.

"But it does?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "It matters. And don't think I haven't stayed up nights wondering whether I'm partly responsible every time I save a life and they go on to kill again—and then wonder if I'd stopped them once and for all, whether the world would really be a worse place." He exhaled noisily. "And maybe I don't want to have that thought when I'm holding a weapon that would be so easy to use, if I had a moment of weakness."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then Alex spoke. "It would be my guess," he said slowly, "that your concern is one that's been voiced by most police watchdog groups at one time or another—and probably a big reason why the background checks and evaluations for each candidate are so invasive."

"Possibly," Bruce said, frowning.

"The testing," Alex continued, "is designed to weed out people who are likely to act in the manner that you've just described."

"But I told you," Bruce repeated, "I wasn't as forthright as I could have been."

"Right," Alex said. "You didn't tell them that you were reluctant to use a gun. Now I'm going to turn it around. Would you say that anything you might have said, either to the panel, to the psychiatrist who evaluated you, or to the backgrounder, in any way conveyed an _eagerness_ to do so?"

Bruce blinked. "No."

"Which means that they were probably aware of your feelings toward firearms," Alex continued. "I mean, when you were active as Batman, I don't recall that you ever let anyone think otherwise. I have one more question, and you don't actually need to answer it." He smiled and continued, "Because you have several times over the last year and a half. Would you prefer a partner who goes charging into the thick of danger, eager to—you'll excuse me—bust heads, or one who steps back, takes the time to properly assess the situation, and then act—forcefully and decisively, yes—but not impulsively." He paused, waiting for Bruce to meet his eyes. "As I said," he repeated, "you don't need to answer that. But I would like you to consider this: of the two partners I've described, if you _had_ to put a gun in the hands of one of them, which would it be?"

Bruce flinched.

"As to whether your taking this new direction is a mistake," Alex continued, "that's something only you can answer. In my opinion, if it _is_ a mistake, then the error doesn't lie with the GCPD vetting procedures. It might be question of timing, or motivation—but not temperament."

Bruce nodded slowly as Alex's words penetrated.

"Have you discussed any of your concerns with your family members? Or with someone like Mr. Gordon?"

Bruce felt himself begin to relax. "Yes," he said, almost eagerly. "I have."

"And…"

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "It's helping. I think." He took a moment to reflect. "It is helping," he repeated with more assurance.

"Good."

* * *

On the drive home, Bruce couldn't stop thinking about the academy. He wasn't overly concerned about the physical training, and although he wasn't sure he remembered everything he'd studied about police procedures, he was fairly sure that with a bit of review over the weekend, it would come back to him.

The main issue was to remember what the correct procedure was—according to the book—rather than the tricks and shortcuts that he'd picked up over the years. He frowned. There had been a time when he'd been more careful to keep the evidence intact, to try to help the charges stick. Sometimes, it hadn't been possible. Sometimes, he'd done everything right—only to see the perp back on the street days later, thanks to a technicality or a plea bargain. Somewhere along the line, it had become less about keeping them off the street and more about punishment and intimidation—and he'd barely even noticed.

He thought back now, trying to pinpoint when the change had occurred. Certainly, by the time Akins had broken with him, he hadn't been concerned about going by the book. Just like years earlier, after Jason's death, he hadn't cared about procedures—he'd just wanted to hurt for a time. _Who did you want to hurt, Bruce?_ he asked himself. _Was it the perps or was it you?_ And the answer to that, of course, was, 'both'.

He sighed. Passing gun handling had been weighing on him so heavily that he'd been virtually ignoring the rest of the curriculum. That had to change. Today was Thursday. He had four days to master the material. It would have to do.

As he crossed the Robert F. Kane Memorial Bridge heading into Bristol, it occurred to him that there was one thing that he should have done weeks earlier. He needed to find out from Jim exactly what was involved in 'qualifying with a firearm'. His aim was decent enough by now, and he certainly knew enough to pass a written test on gun safety. Maybe it really wouldn't take much more than that to get over that particular hurdle.

* * *

Jim answered Bruce's knock almost immediately.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here, or if I'd find you at the manor," Bruce said, with some relief. "But come to think of it, you're usually back here at this time."

Jim nodded and moved aside to allow Bruce entry to the groundskeeper's cottage. "I guess I'm just a creature of habit," he said. "Martha and I usually talk for a bit at this hour."

Bruce blinked. Then his eye fell on the computer monitor on the desk, open to a Skrype session. "I'm sorry," he said. "I could come back—"

"Sit down," Jim commanded. "If you decided to come here in person, there's got to be something on your mind. Just let me sign off." He moved toward the desk.

Bruce sank onto the sofa. "You don't have a web-cam?"

"No, I don't," Jim said, in a tone that let Bruce know that he'd evidently had this conversation before. "I don't need anyone noticing if I got egg on my shirtsleeve or forgot to shave, and Martha doesn't need to feel like she can't sit at the computer without—in her words—fixing her hair, not that I can imagine how she'd need to." He chuckled. "When I told her that, she said she'd prefer leaving it to my imagination." He typed a short phrase into the chat window and turned off the monitor. "Now," he said, turning the chair around to face Bruce, "what can I do for you?"

Bruce hesitated. "I was wondering about the academy."

Jim nodded. "I thought that might be it."

"Actually, I'm wondering about the gun handling test."

"That's 'tests,' plural," Jim said, nodding once more, "and again, I'm not surprised. Okay. What did you want to know?"

Bruce took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "Everything," he said faintly. "What are they looking for?"

"You just answered the question," Jim shot back. "Everything." Seeing a flash of irritation in Bruce's eyes, he relented. "Okay. There's a written test on firearm safety. When I was in charge, it was 80 multiple choice questions. You needed to get 60 of them right to pass. Sawyer may have changed the criteria, so if you find yourself facing a hundred short answers, an essay, and a pass cutoff of 90, don't come crying to me later."

"Got it," Bruce nodded. "What else?"

"You'll need to prove that you're qualified with both a pistol and a shotgun—"

"Wh-what?" Bruce fought to stay calm. "I've been practicing with a pistol, but..." He'd rarely seen any officers who weren't on a SWAT team carrying shotguns. How could he have missed this? He knew how. He'd never been particularly interested in what sort of firearms training was given to GCPD officers. He'd simply observed the kinds of weapons they carried in the line of duty and noted that, in general, that meant pistols. Somehow, he'd got it in his head that shotguns were the purview of specialized divisions and not necessary for all officers.

"Do you _have_ a shotgun?" Jim asked. "It's been some time, but I can come back with you and give you some pointers."

Bruce gave a slight nod and took another breath. "What else?"

"The focus of the firearms training program is safety, accuracy, and speed—in that order. The goal is to get you to a point where you can perform quickly and efficiently, without compromising your safety. Basic firearms training is normally 90 hours to start with, but this is something you can't just pass and forget about." His eyes took on a blazing intensity. "There are mandatory five-hour refresher trainings every six months. As there should be," he added. "Considering that this is one area where mistakes can be lethal. We can't afford to make them. I'm not saying we don't," he admitted, "but we can't afford to."

Bruce nodded glumly.

"Another thing. The course isn't just about guns. It's also about tactical training, chemical agent training and something they like to call "practical demonstrations" of the effects of non-lethal takedowns like tasers and pepper spray. And yes," he smiled apologetically, "that does mean that they want to make sure you know firsthand what it feels like to be tasered or pepper-sprayed, before you try using either on someone else."

"Am I expected to shoot myself in the foot, too?" Bruce demanded.

"I'd say more than half the instructors are expecting you to," Jim retorted, "but it's not a course requirement."

Bruce sighed. "What else?"

"You'll need to score 84 percent or higher on the pistol qualification course and 80 percent or higher with a shotgun. There's an emphasis on tactical training—meaning simulated deadly force incidents. I think you're familiar with those gauntlets where life-sized cutouts pop up at you and you need to fire on the perps and avoid the civilians?"

His palms were sweating. "I thought... I've been using bulls-eyes. I..."

"There's a static range too," Jim nodded. "You'll need to score three consecutive passing grades with pistol and shotgun to qualify—but the tactical training starts before that." He frowned. "Are you okay?"

Bruce closed his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" Jim asked.

Bruce let out a long breath. "Commissioner Sawyer. I need to tell her... it's off." He bent forward in the chair until his elbows rested on his knees. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I just can't."


	15. 14. Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim helps Bruce cram for the Academy examinations. Bruce seeks other options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Police Ethics questions adapted from scr911 dot org (accessed February 14, 2013).
> 
> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta. "Do What You Do" lyrics written by Angelo Petraglia and Georgia Middleman. Recorded by Martina McBride on her Emotion album (RCA Nashville, 1999).

_Slow down that's right_  
Give it all you got  
Yeah you got the right stuff  
Kick back let go  
Trust yourself you know  
Yeah what you got is good enough

Hey don't give 'em what they think they want  
'Cause they don't have a clue…

— _Angelo Petraglia, Georgia Middleman, "Do What You Do."_

_  
_

**Chapter 14—Good Enough**

"Put the phone down, Bruce."

Although Jim's voice was quiet, Bruce did not miss the unmistakable note of command. And although Bruce didn't quite lower the phone, he did look up in perplexed irritation. "I can't do this," he repeated.

"I heard you the first time," Jim replied. "And I've heard you say it a few other times over these last few days."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm serious," he said. "There's just no way that I'll be able to pass gun handling on Monday. Which means that there's no point in bothering with this whole charade."

"You won't pass gun handling on Monday," Jim repeated softly. He regarded Bruce for a long moment. Then his face creased into a broad smile. "Well, thank G-d for that."

"Bruce gaped at him. "I… beg your pardon?"

Jim sat down in a nearby armchair. "Bruce, let me ask you a serious question. How would you feel about sitting in the passenger seat of a car when you know that your driver has never taken a car out in real conditions? Oh, they've memorized the material for the written test. They've done very well on the simulator games in the arcade. But they've never actually driven on a real road, with real traffic and… and bumper cars get them a bit twitchy."

Bruce shook his head. "It's not the same thing."

"No," Jim agreed. "It's worse. Look. There are some subjects in the curriculum that you're going to know better than the instructors. On those, I agree with you, one hundred percent. You shouldn't need to sit in a classroom and go over them again. In fact, you'll probably be bored to tears if you do. But Firearms Handling? Bruce… if there's one course you need the classroom hours for, this is it." He frowned. "You were planning on going from the testing directly into the field, weren't you?"

Bruce looked down. "Planning is too strong a word. But I was… hoping."

Jim sighed. "It might help if you think of the testing as a means of determining which courses you can get advance credit for. Because get this through your head now and accept it: you _are_ going to the Academy, and you _will_ have to take some courses. No two ways about it. And here's something else to keep in mind. There are plenty of new recruits who've never seen a gun up close, much less handled one. The instructors are used to that." He stood up and crossed over to the sofa where Bruce sat. "Granted, they're more used to new candidates being too gung-ho and excited over the whole thing; you're right to be tackling your reservations early. My point," he continued, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder, "is that right now, passing or failing the tests isn't going to get you kicked out of the program. You passed the vetting. You're in. And either you're comfortable with the material now, or you will be by the time the program's over."

"Comfortable with a firearm…" Bruce said, closing his eyes. "You'll excuse me if that's not my greatest ambition."

Still keeping his hand on Bruce's shoulder, Jim sat down next to him. "Well," he rumbled, "how else are you going to work on your fear?"

"What?"

Jim waited for Bruce to look at him again. "How else," he repeated, "are you going to work on your fear? I've seen you work to just be able to load that Beretta, but you were ready to give up until circumstances forced your hand."

"Circumstances and a talk with Dick," Bruce muttered.

"And now, you're having a talk with me. That's not the point. The point is that you and I both know that fear is an insidious thing, and once you let it get a toehold, it tends to gets worse." Bruce started to speak. Jim kept going. "Look. You can either control your fear, or you can let it control you. Nobody... I repeat, _nobody_ expects you to beat this thing overnight. But you are not walking away. Not for that reason." Jim sighed. "Don't make me give you that clichéd old speech."

Bruce frowned. "Speech?"

"Yeah. That speech you hear in every other movie about facing your fears instead of running away from them. You don't really need me to tell it to you now; you've probably had to give it a few times in your career. Besides, I hate making speeches." That earned him a quick smile. "Do me one favor," he continued. "The last time you were ready to give up on this, you decided that you were going to wait until morning before you called Sawyer. Do the same thing now: sleep on it."

"Sleep?" Bruce asked wearily. "As you just pointed out, gun handling isn't the only thing I'm going to have to worry about on Monday. I've barely touched the other subjects."

"Ah," Jim nodded. "So you're back in the game?"

"I… don't know," Bruce admitted with another ghost of a smile, "but if there's a chance that I won't be making that phone call in the morning, I can't afford to waste tonight."

"Sleeping isn't a waste," Jim pointed out. "Of course," he continued in friendlier tone, "if you were planning on ordering pizza and tackling the books, I _guess_ I could help you out. Maybe highlight a few policies and procedures for you that I know for a fact fly in the face of how you're used to doing things."

"I can man—" He stopped. "Dick said you liked the Vegissimo from Luigi's?"

Jim chuckled. "My doctor likes it. He wants me to watch my cholesterol. I've given up sausage and pepperoni, but I'll take my chances with cheese. Still, don't let that stop you from ordering what you want. I doubt I can eat more than half a pie."

"Actually," Bruce considered, "let's start with the Vegissimo. I can always order something else if we run out."

"Better put coffee on, too."

"Barbara suggests—"

"I _know_ what Barbara suggests, but I can tell you right now that if you're hoping to fit in at the academy, there are two beverages of choice: beer and coffee. And since you don't drink beer…"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'll make the coffee."

"I'll be at the house in an hour. Unless you wanted to set up here?"

Bruce considered. "Actually, working here might not be a bad idea," he said. "It's going below freezing tonight. If the path should ice over, I think I'd rather _I_ slipped on my way back to the manor, than you on your way back to the cottage."

"Nice to see you thinking cheerful thoughts for a change," Jim retorted. He waved Bruce off with a chuckle. "Go, go. Meanwhile, I'll get online and ask Barbara if she can point out any other resources."

* * *

High-pitched wails greeted Bruce on his arrival at the manor. Heart in his mouth, he raced to the kitchen. "Selina!? Is Helena…?" He stopped. Helena was lying across the kitchen threshold struggling fiercely as Selina held her down with one hand while unsuccessfully trying to pull a patent leather Mary Jane onto her tiny foot with the other.

"Bruce? I am so glad you're home. I need a little help here," Selina said over Helena's screams.

"NO! NOOOOO!" Helena choked out through a flood of angry tears.

"What happened?" Bruce asked, as Selina tossed him the shoe and used her now-free hand to further immobilize their daughter.

Selina sighed. "She knocked my glass off the table," she explained, jerking her head in the direction of the fragments. "I figured the first order of business was to get her shoes on in case I missed a sliver or two cleaning up. She had other ideas."

"I see." Bruce bent down to look at his daughter. Her face was red and streaked with tears. Her nose was running. When she saw him, her angry howls died down to furious sobs.

Bruce took a deep breath. "Hi, Helena."

A loud sniffle was his only reply.

"Um…" Bruce tried to keep his tone soothing. "Mommy said a glass broke."

Another sniffle. She looked exhausted.

"You know," he said, "if you step on the broken pieces in your socks it can hurt, right?" He nodded, smiling, encouraging her to imitate him.

Helena watched him. Cautiously, she nodded back.

"Atta girl. So, you know how we stop your feet from getting hurt?"

Helena frowned.

Bruce held up the Mary Jane with a smile. "We put on shoes!"

" **NOOOOOOOOO!** " All at once, Helena's limp, pliable form surged with renewed vigor. "NO SHOES! NO! NONONO!"

"Helena… _OW!_ " He brought a hand up quickly to his nose. He'd had no idea that she could kick that hard. Nothing seemed broken, but it wasn't until he took his hand away and looked at it that he was reassured that nothing was bloody either.

"Bruce," Selena ventured, her hands still pinning their daughter to the floor, "did you actually think you could reason with a toddler?"

Bruce sighed. "Plan B." He reached for her foot. Helena kicked his hand away forcefully. Wincing, Bruce grasped her leg firmly in one hand. With the other, he jammed the shoe on. So far, so good. Unfortunately, he needed both hands to work the buckle and as soon as he released her leg, Helena seized her chance and delivered another kick. The shoe dropped off her foot and fell to the ground.

"Want to try this in costume?" Selina asked. "MeTube needs another hit."

"Don't even think it. Does she have any other shoes upstairs? Loafers? Maybe something with Velcro?"

"Yeah, but if they slip on easy, they slip off easy, too."

"Point." Bruce sighed. "All right. Let her go. I've got her." Selina gave him a look, but she released her. Bruce scooped the little girl up and swung her high into the air."

Helena shrieked. Bruce swung her again. On the third swing, she giggled.

"You know," Selina remarked, "she just ate. I'm not sure flinging her about is a good idea."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "She's not screaming. She's not walking on broken glass in her stocking feet. It's a good idea."

"And you'll clean up after her if you're wrong?"

Bruce considered. Then, recognizing the force of her argument, he set Helena on his shoulders, piggyback. "We'll be in the study," he said. "Unless you'd rather I take care of the glass while you watch her?"

Selina shook her head. "No, I can handle the glass. Just… try not to get her too excited. Or too near anything breakable. I'll join you in a bit."

Bruce nodded. He stole a glance at his watch, surprised to see that the entire incident had taken less than five minutes. He was actually going to get to spend a bit of time with his daughter before he had to hit the books!

* * *

Two hours and three quarters of a pizza later, Jim looked at the next page of the study guide.

"You are working with a new partner," he read. "He is senior to you and known as a good cop by just about everyone. You observe a male walking down the street in a residential district. He looks normal to you, except that his clothes are a little ragged and he needs a haircut. While he doesn't look like a homeowner, there are several similar-looking individuals that walk this street. Your partner, who is driving, slows and calls to the male by saying, 'Hey, fellow, what are you doing in this area?' This subject looks over at you but just keeps walking. Your partner makes a U-turn and stops alongside the guy. Both of you exit the police vehicle and begin walking quickly to catch the guy, who just keeps walking in the same direction. As you approach, the subject turns and makes an obscene gesture. Before you can say anything, your partner grabs the subject by the arm, trips him, and slams him face first into the sidewalk. He then cuffs the guy, picks him up by the arm and shoves him against the patrol car until he gets the door open. He then shoves the guy, who is now bleeding from the nose, into the rear seat. You have not had time to really do anything, nor has the subject. Your partner winks at you and says, "Next time he'll think twice before taking a swing at a police officer." Your partner then sits down in the front seat and begins to write a report as he calls for transportation to take the subject to jail." He nodded to Bruce. "What do you do?"

Bruce sighed. "As in every other case, I respect the chain of command. I do nothing to confront or antagonize my partner directly. I do not warn him. I do not give him a chance. Instead I report to his superior. If no action is taken, I go higher." He looked at Jim. "And I realize that, despite the alleged protection offered to whistle-blowers in this situation, I can pretty much take for granted that I will, in fact, face repercussions, should my partner or any of his friends suspect that I was involved."

"That's right," Jim said heavily. "Once you're out in the field, acting on a situation of this nature is not supposed to be—but in all likelihood, it will be—a judgment call. I wish I could tell you differently. But, as far as your answer to the panel, yes, that is protocol."

He returned to his page. "Next one: You have a beat partner whom you really like. He is one of the best cops you know. He looks sharp, does good work, and you'd trust him with your life. You have noticed, however, that every once in a while he smells of alcohol. Finally, one night while on duty, you ask him about the smell. He produces a small flask from his uniformed jacket inside pocket. He states 'this is my one vice in the world. I have a nip now and then. Never more than two in a shift. Trust me, it's no problem.' As far as you know, he's right. He thanks you for mentioning the smell, and says he'll do something about that."

Bruce took a swallow of coffee. "That one… I would try to lodge anonymously. If I noticed that he sometimes smells of alcohol, it would be plausible that others did as well and the facts wouldn't necessarily point to me as the source of the information." He sighed. "I would still need to consider that I would be suspected and take precautions."

"Leave that last bit out of your answer unless pressed," Jim warned. "Here's another one. You have reason to believe that there is a vigilante at large, taking the law into his own hands. You hear from others that this vigilante has never taken a life, is careful, cautious, and able to crack many cases that the police can't. At the same time, he operates outside the law. You would complain, but it seems that he has support at the highest echelons of law enforcement." Bruce noticed that Jim was fighting to keep a straight face. "What do you do?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "If the vigilante in question is associated with the Justice League, the Justice Society, or other such organizations, then I would presume that he has UN sanction to operate. Which would mean that, so long as local law enforcement is requesting his assistance, there is no ethical dilemma. If the vigilante lacks such sanction, well, if the highest echelons of law enforcement are willing to overlook that, then it's essentially managerial fiat and my hands are tied."

Jim chuckled. "Good. Keep that answer in mind in case there's some jerk on the panel who thinks asking you a question like that is going to make you squirm."

* * *

It was a quiet patrol. It seemed that the recent sightings of visiting Capes—everyone from Superman to Looker—had the underworld lying lower than usual.

Batman still found trouble, of course. Vandals, car thieves, petty criminals who usually thought they were safe—relying on the likes of Joker and Two-Face to keep him occupied; lawbreakers who operated in urban parks and narrow side streets where police cruisers seldom ventured. Tonight, their luck ran out.

He'd just foiled his eighth car-theft of the night, when the signal went up. He cast his grapnel and snagged the horizontal flagpole projecting from a nearby hotel. Tonight might turn out to have some excitement, after all!

* * *

He was halfway to GCPD when Oracle called. "Do you want me to spoil the surprise?" she asked.

Although her tone was flippant, Dick heard something more serious under the banter. "Hit me."

"I'm taking our home security to DEFCON 3. Make sure you remember the access codes."

Dick frowned. "Last update was two months ago, right? If so, I got 'em. Now what's going on?"

Barbara sighed. "The other shoe just dropped. You know how, since Bruce's arrest, we've sort of been waiting all this time for someone to target us? Montoya lit the signal to give you a heads-up. It's on."

Dick took a deep breath. "Details?"

"Hush is offering ten million for your head." Barbara sniffed. "Frankly, I think you should be insulted."

"It's only fair," Dick admitted. "I took his hands."

"You're not feeling guilty..."

"No. But you'd better make sure Bruce knows what's going on, too. Last time, Hush tried using me to get to Bruce. I wouldn't put it past him to go for a reversal this time out." He frowned. "It might be helpful to know whether he's just dangling a wad of cash and pointing his beagles in my direction, or whether he's actually planned any of this. The former would be easier, but his usual MO's the latter."

"Yeah. And if he is taking on an active role, you're right: someone probably _will_ try getting to Bruce. As if Bruce doesn't have enough going on right now," Barbara groaned.

"Noted." Batman sighed. "Appreciate the warning, O. I'll be careful. Signing off now. I'm almost at GCPD; may as well find out if that's the only thing they wanted to pass on, or if there's some other intel. But, when I get home we'll review some of the voice-activated defenses." He snickered. "I'd hate to say the wrong code phrase and electrify the floor when I mean to flood the lobby!"

* * *

It was nearly 2AM when Bruce trudged back to the manor. He had rarely been more grateful for his photographic memory, but memorization was only part of the task. It was a double-edged sword: he retained just about everything he read, but he still had to sift through the data, determine what was relevant, and connect it to material that he'd already learned. If he didn't take the time to review, he'd discovered early on that it was something like walking into a library—in which every volume had been flung off the shelves and thrown in a different direction. The information was all there, all accessible, but there was no order to it. Since the tests were timed, he needed to know the material backwards and forwards.

He yawned as he took his coat off and hung it in the vestibule closet. The ground floor was dark. Selina hadn't gone patrolling tonight, which meant that she'd probably turned in by now. Bruce knew that he should probably do the same, but there was one last avenue he wanted to explore before bed…

* * *

The voice on the other end of the phone was silent for a moment. "You know," Clark ventured slowly, "I can put the question to the League, if you'd like me to, but it probably won't be that easy."

Bruce's knuckles whitened on the receiver. "I…" Despite himself, Bruce started as a hand came down on his shoulder and he whirled about reflexively, knowing who he would find when he did. His voice hardened. "You didn't need to get out of bed for this. And if you were going to," he added with a roll of his eyes, "you could at least have gotten dressed first. Does anyone actually still wear a nightcap?"

"Sorry," Clark deadpanned. "I don't cover the fashion beat, so I'm a little behind on the latest trends. By the way, you can hang up the phone now."

"At least you aren't wearing bunny slippers," Bruce replied, complying with a shake of his head, as he took in the baby-blue flannel pajamas and plaid footwear. "This wasn't an emergency."

"It doesn't have to be," Clark replied, looking down for a moment.

"About regaining UN sanction," he continued, a serious note coming into his voice as he raised his head again to meet Bruce's eyes, "you do realize that's not going to help you in Gotham."

Bruce nodded, scowling. Thanks to Jim's police ethics quiz, that fact was uppermost in his mind: if local law enforcement did not request or accept his help, the UN sanction would be as useless as a hundred-dollar bill in a pop machine. "That doesn't matter," he said. "I need to get back to… me. Whether I pass the academy program or not. And," he added, looking down, "it's beginning to look like 'not'."

Clark blinked. "That's… I'm sorry, Bruce. I never thought I'd hear that coming from you."

Bruce shook his head. "You didn't need to come over," he repeated. "Sawyer has me over a barrel. I need to jump through her hoops, if I mean to operate in Gotham, in costume. However, if that doesn't work… would the League…?"

"Hang on," Clark replied, frowning. "I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that you're _asking_ to rejoin the team. Normally, we practically have to beg."

"Don't make it harder than it is, Kent," Bruce said. "I can't give up doing what I… do. I don't want to give up Gotham. But it may be time to explore other possibilities."

Clark didn't answer.

"What?"

The Man of Steel took a deep breath. "Well, first of all, as you're probably aware, something like this would have to be put to all members for a vote."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "You don't think it would go my way."

"I think it might have," Clark said, "if you hadn't decided to accept Commissioner Sawyer's terms."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Clark met Bruce's gaze unflinchingly. "Had you contacted the League first, some members might have voiced reservations about whether you were fit for active duty, but I think, in the end, you would have been back. However, that's not how you did it." He shook his head slowly. "Bruce, think about it. You're trying to qualify as a police officer. I know it's a stepping stone toward getting officially sanctioned. That's not the point. From what you're saying right now? You're turning to the League for membership, when you think you're about to wash out of the academy. In other words," he took a step closer, his expression deadly serious, "you're asking us to accept you as a member of the Justice League when you can't handle regular law enforcement."

"I never went through the police academy," Bruce pointed out. "That hasn't been a problem in the past."

"Right," Clark nodded. "Because until now, we've all assumed—correction: _known_ —that you qualified, or that you _would_ qualify, if you were interested in trying for it. We didn't need a piece of paper saying you could do it. We saw you in action."

"And now?"

Clark tugged at his collar. His voice softened. "Bruce. You've been out of the costume for three years. I can imagine some of what you've been through during those three years."

"Don't patronize me, Kent."

Clark shook his head. "I'm not. Bruce, you're not the only one who had to take an..." he coughed. "...an enforced sabbatical." He tugged at his collar again. "Considering that my powers haven't been back for long and we're still not sure that my control is what it used to be, I…" He took a breath. "I'm currently on provisional status, myself," he admitted. Ignoring Bruce's shocked expression, he continued. "The League is changing. There's a greater degree of accountability expected, both internally and externally. I can't honestly call it a bad thing, even if I don't like all of the ramifications." He smiled for a moment, as Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder and then, just as quickly, withdrew it. "Look, it would be one thing if you passed the academy program and then walked away from the department. If you fail—or worse, give up before you start—I don't see any membership vote going in your favor." He looked down. "I'm not sure _I_ could support you in that case, to be honest."

Bruce slowly nodded. "I see."

Clark cleared his throat. "There's one other thing to consider, by the way: basic psychology. Membership requests go to a vote, and all active, reserve, and provisional members get to weigh in. This isn't your fault, but…"

"But?"

"…We've all been interrogated by that backgrounder of yours, and fairly recently. It wasn't just you under the microscope. We knew that was going to happen and we consented, and that's fine. The thing is, If you don't stay the course, you're pretty much saying that we did it for nothing. I'm not sure how, say, Ollie or Hal might view your petition in that case. Don't misunderstand. I'm not saying that it would necessarily be a conscious thing on anyone's part, but…"

"…but their experience might lead certain members to be… predisposed… toward turning me down." Bruce nodded again.

"I could be wrong."

"You could be," Bruce allowed. "But you wouldn't have said anything if you didn't think it possible." He sighed. "Or if you didn't think I should complete the program."

"That's… not really for me to say."

Bruce's lips twitched. "No. But you didn't say. Still, I presume I've correctly deduced your opinion?"

Clark hesitated for a moment before he replied. "Yes."

Bruce nodded again. "Thanks for coming out here."

"You're not angry, I hope…"

Bruce forced himself to smile. "I'm not angry, Kent. I just…" and all at once, he no longer had to force the smile. "I've had so many pep-talks over the last little while. As appreciated as they are," he admitted, "I think what I really needed was a kick to the posterior." _Or two_ , he amended mentally, thinking of his earlier conversation with Jim. _"_ Thanks for that."

Clark shook his head slowly, but a smile was forming on his own lips. "For that… you _really_ should have called Ollie."

* * *

"Have you been down here all night?" Selina asked.

Bruce jerked upright, startled by the sound of her voice. "Is it morning already?" he asked. He hadn't even heard her come downstairs.

"Yeah… it's almost ten. Helena was scratching on your door—I don't think she's quite got the hang of knocking, yet. I was going to tell her to let you sleep, when I realized you'd left it open a crack and you weren't inside." She took a few steps closer. "What are you doing?"

Bruce gestured to the table, where a Remington Model 870 shotgun lay before him. "I was loading it," he said wearily, "and unloading it. It's… I'm finding it easier than the Beretta. I thought I should practice firing it before I came upstairs, only every time I considered setting up a new target, I decided I needed to practice the loading and unloading again."

Selena moved forward, until she stood directly behind his chair. Her lean arms moved around his neck, the fingers of one hand gently clasping the other just above his heart. She rested her chin gently atop his head.

"I know," Bruce continued. "I'm delaying. Stalling. Not… something I usually do. But when it comes to guns, I…"

"Yeah," Selina murmured.

Bruce leaned back into her. "And I _don't_ need to do this. At least, not now. Jim and I discussed it yesterday; there's no way I can pass gun handling on Monday, and it's foolish to try when there's so much other material to cover. He's right about that. I know he is."

"Okay," Selina said. "And the reason you spent the night down here with Ol' Betsy is…"

Bruce straightened his shoulders. "Because even if my speed and accuracy are beyond unacceptable, I'll be damned if my hands are going to be shaking on that firing range." He sighed. "I know I keep saying I don't want to do this—and it's the truth—but if I have to, then I need to stop whining and get on with it."

"Maybe," Selina said, "but you might want to consider sleeping. Jim called to confirm you're still going over around two?"

Bruce nodded wearily. "More studying." He yawned and stretched. "I guess I should try to get _some_ rest in the next four hours." He sighed. "I'll make it up to Helena."

"Oh, I think she'll forgive you," Selina grinned. "This time…"

* * *

"How's it going, Boss-man?"

Startled, Bruce jerked his head upwards, meeting Barbara's gaze as she peered at him from the monitor. He growled and returned to the study guide that Jim had given him.

Barbara sighed. "That well?" she asked, banishing the levity from her voice.

Bruce looked up again. "Police pull over a suspect for reckless driving," he intoned. "When they ask him for his license and registration, they discover that he's been driving with a suspended license. He's arrested on the spot. When the police search his car, they discover cocaine and an unlicensed firearm, _but_ ," he scowled, "because they failed to obtain a warrant prior to conducting the search, the suspect can only be charged with the driving violations."

"Yeah," Barbara nodded. "Not quite your usual MO, is it?"

Bruce sighed. "If it was just a written test, I'd be less concerned. But you know that in addition to the written component—and, where applicable, a skills test—there's the small matter of the oral examinations." He rolled his eyes. "More panels. All subjective. And," he gritted his teeth, "some of the people who sit on those panels are going to be less concerned with my current grasp of the material than they will be with my—as you phrased it—usual MO." He sighed. "I may have passed the admissions hurdle, but if certain elements don't want me to pass the curriculum, then—"

"Then you'll show 'em what you think of 'em," Barbara cut him off. "Because if you can wrestle Killer Croc to a standstill, you're not going to let a bunch of bureaucrats stop you." Her green eyes bore down on him. " _Are_ you?"

Bruce muttered darkly under his breath and went back to the study guide with a scowl.

"That's the spirit!" she grinned. Her smile dropped. "Seriously? About your past? You _did_ pass that admissions hurdle, past and all, so forget anyone on the panel who tries to put you on the defensive over that. And by 'forget'?" she added, her smile back in full force, "I mean something else that starts with 'f', but just in case Daddy's checking up on you, there are some words he doesn't need to know I know."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "I'm not sure I did either."

Barbara laughed and closed the connection.

* * *

Derek Powers rang Paxton's doorbell at precisely 5:30 that evening. Paxton opened the door almost immediately and ushered him to the drawing room.

"Where's Thackeray?" Powers asked, surprised that the butler hadn't greeted him at the door.

"I gave him the afternoon off," Paxton replied. "The media has been rather attentive, of late. As much as I trust him, I've seen too many people stab me in the back recently for me to risk his overhearing something that might be," he coughed, "better left out of the media, if you take my meaning."

"I do indeed," Powers nodded. "I presume you asked me here to discuss the gala?"

"In part, Derek, in part," Paxton chuckled. "I've noticed that Wayne prefers to shun the media spotlight. I suppose that," he sniffed, "as a so-called creature of the night, he prefers the shadows. And yet, he's about to make a public appearance," he said, drawing his words out. "At a charity gala, no less. Well, Derek," he smiled benignly, "why don't we give him some publicity? There was kerfuffle outside police headquarters last week, when he had to appear for a panel interview. He gave them the slip then. I can tell you truthfully, Derek, those reporters are sharks. And they've caught the scent of blood in the water. I'd suggest you use that."

A slow smile spread across Derek's lips. "Let them know that Wayne's confirmed attendance at the gala," he said, nodding. "They won't send their society writers to do some puff piece. They'll send out the hounds."

"Exactly. And," he added piously, "when word of this gets out, I wouldn't be surprised in the least if the Foundation sells a few more tickets."

"And it's for such a _good_ cause."

"It is indeed, Derek," Paxton nodded back. "It is indeed."

* * *

The perimeter alarm went off on Sunday morning, while they were at breakfast. "I'll check that," Bruce muttered.

"Probably just a pigeon flying into the security grid," Selina remarked as she absently cut a pancake into eighths and smiled at Helena, who was watching with anticipation.

"Doubtful," Bruce replied, pushing the front section of the newspaper toward her. "Sawyer warned me that once I was passed for the Academy, she was going to issue a short statement confirming it. I wasn't sure when it was going to happen, but," he pointed to the article, "it has." It was front page news, he noted, even if it was below the fold with a mere twelve-point headline.

"Ah." Selina set the pancake pieces onto Helena's plate and set it on the highchair tray. Helena immediately stabbed her plastic-coated fork into one. "I can probably hold them off, if you'd rather beat a hasty retreat."

Bruce hesitated. "Let's just see how serious this is," he said, getting up.

Two minutes later, he was back. "Most of them are at the main entrance," he reported, "but there are a few stationed at the other access points: the cemetery entrance, the beach… I saw one intrepid soul walking along the fence, doubtless hoping for a breach. Or wondering if there's a side road for the Batmobile."

"So, we're surrounded," Selina stated.

"We aren't trapped, though. They don't know about the Cave, nor the tunnel that I really use to leave in the Batmobile." He smiled. "Yes, I checked. However," he added, "I'm not sure it's a good idea to hide from the press at this point." He sighed. "They want a story. I can either give them one now, or I can deal with a throng of them waiting for me on Monday. From what everyone has been telling me—and based on what I've observed personally—my wisest course of action at the Academy would be to attempt to keep a low profile. I won't succeed," he added, rolling his eyes slightly, "but I still shouldn't try to call attention to myself. I can't help thinking that dealing with a crowd like that on Academy property would be somewhat more disruptive. Not to mention conspicuous," he added as an afterthought."

"Good point." Selina reached for a piece of toast. "Maybe you should call Dick. He worked in media relations for over a year. He might have some tips."

Bruce shook his head. "I've dealt with the press before. And one thing that's stood me in good stead, both with them and with other large problems, is the recognition that a task becomes much easier when broken down into manageable chunks." He moved toward the phone.

"Who are you calling?"

Bruce smiled. "Someone who's less likely to twist my words into something I don't mean to say." He dialed a number from memory. _Come on, come on._ Four rings. And then…

"Yeah?" The voice was harried and hurried, but still achingly familiar. They'd had a few good times and he still looked back on them fondly. But for now, he drew his attention to the task at hand and tried to ignore the other members of the press whom he could hear rumbling in the background.

"Hello, Summer."

"B—" she caught herself almost instantly. "Is this who I think it is?"

"I'm ready to give in to the inevitable," Bruce coaxed a bit of good-natured resignation into his voice. "You can have your interview. In fact," he smiled, "if you can meet me where we had our first date, you can have an exclusive. Be there at noon. Come alone," he hesitated, "well, actually, I suppose you can bring along a camera crew, if you must. But make sure you're not followed. If anyone else is there, I'll keep right on driving."

"Got it."

Bruce smiled. "See you there. Oh, I should mention that it's been some time, and I," he chuckled, "I'll probably look a bit different from what you recall. So, to make it easy, I'll be wearing the tie you gave me for Christmas."

"Now, now," Summer chided, "that place has glass walls. You'd better make sure you're wearing more than _just_ a tie." She giggled. "See you at noon."

Bruce hung up the phone and turned to Selina. "Of course, the meeting is strictly business," he said, hoping that Summer's words hadn't been audible to her.

"Of course," Selina grinned. "Relax." She pushed the plate of pancakes toward him. "I'm not jealous. Besides," her smile grew wider, "she's right; you really _shouldn't_ go to the Botanical Gardens wearing only a tie."

* * *

"Do you have adequate lighting?" Bruce asked.

Summer glanced at her team and nodded. "This is fine," she confirmed. "I never knew there was a studio in here."

"Well, the local Garden Network affiliate used to broadcast live from here, before Cataclysm. I'm hoping they'll come back some time, though I've had other matters on my mind, of late."

"Ah, I see." Summer frowned. Bruce sounded affable, polite, as charming as always, but something was different. It took her a moment to realize what was missing: Bruce was alert and engaged, with none of the vague befuddlement that had been so characteristic of him in times past. "So… shall we get started?"

Bruce coughed. "I think I ought to get changed first. And did you bring a makeup artist, or should I take care of that, too?"

Summer laughed merrily. "I was wondering if you were planning on going before the cameras like that," she admitted, indicating his rumpled tweed sports jacket, gray flannel pants adorned with an obvious mustard stain, and battered brown fedora. The blue cashmere tie was clean and pressed, but it was the only part of the ensemble that looked fresh. She wasn't going to mention the seedy mustache and goatee.

"I agreed to an interview, not a media circus," Bruce pointed out. "This was the easiest way to avoid being followed."

"I see. Wait." Summer frowned. "Did you ever… dress like that to duck out on one of our dates?"

"No," Bruce retorted. "I had a somewhat different costume for those occasions."

"Oh?" Summer puzzled for a moment before she realized what he meant. "Oh! No, I was just wondering. Because, trust me. I wouldn't want to have been caught dead with you in that getup. Um… how long will it take you to get presentable?"

Bruce relaxed. "It shouldn't be more than a few minutes—unless you do need me to handle my own makeup."

* * *

"After having spent nearly two years in Arkham," Summer continued, "it must have been quite an adjustment for you when you got out."

Bruce nodded. "It was," he said, hoping his smile looked natural. "But let's remember that for a number of months prior to my release, I'd been granted supervised weekends with my family. That helped to smooth the transition."

"Still, you know that many people question the wisdom of your application to the Gotham City Police Academy. "

Bruce nodded. "Frankly, I'd say it's understandable. It is a big jump. And my previous methods were often at odds with police protocols. I'd like to think that I've gained some perspective over the past few years. The other thing you need to realize is that the GCPD is extremely thorough in evaluating candidates. They wouldn't have passed me if they had any doubts about my stability."

"Still, people can get twitchy where guns are concerned. Once you're through the academy, you'll be carrying one in the line of duty, correct?"

"Yes, that's right," Bruce said. "And I don't blame anyone for being nervous. As you, and," he faced the camera, "many of your watchers know, I lost my parents to a gun. Believe me when I say that using one isn't something I undertake lightly."

"Moving right along, Bruce… As Batman, you've never carried a gun before. Do you think that's going to pose a problem?"

Bruce nodded. "Let's just say that it's one course at the Academy that I don't expect to be able to breeze through. On the other hand, I'm not sure if anybody watching now would be comfortable with the idea of my being simply handed a gun, when I've never used one under field conditions." He hoped Jim was watching _that_!

"You've also been absent from the social scene for ages. Do you foresee that changing?"

Bruce smiled. "Well, actually, Summer…"

Powers frowned as he watched the images on the television screen. Gleason was just one reporter, he knew, and one who had dated Wayne in the past. Of course, she was going to make him look good. "Well, Bruce," he said softly to the set, "I wouldn't rest on my laurels quite yet. There are going to be a lot of people at that gala looking to get a piece of you—if I have to add them to the guest list myself…"


	16. 15. Knowing What You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's first day on the Academy grounds is a bit more exciting than he's bargained for. WE receives a bomb threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for combat assistance. Special thanks to PJ for info on cop culture and protocols.
> 
> "Havin' A Hunch" written by Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty with additional lyrics by Theodore S. Geisel. From the Seussical the Musical original cast album (Decca 2000).

_You're on your own_

_You know what you know_

_Don't worry about_

_How fast or how slow_

_Be certain you step_

_With caution and tact_

' _Cause life is a great big_

_Balancing act!_

— _Lynn Ahrens, "Havin' A Hunch" (Based on the stylings of Theodore S. Geisel)_

**Chapter 15—Knowing What You Know**

"Welcome to the Academy," the uniformed officer said over the speaker in his booth when Bruce rolled down the window of his BMW coupe at the front gate. The officer's tone was respectful, but his face was expressionless as he stared straight ahead. "Identification?"

Bruce nodded and extracted his driver's license from his wallet and held it up.

"There's a viewer to the left. Move your hand."

Bruce complied with an inner sigh.

There was a moment's pause as the officer ran the data. Then the bar that blocked the road onto the academy grounds swung up. "Follow this road to the parking lot behind the main building. Do not deviate from the main road. Please use the designated student parking. Your escort will be waiting for you there." The instructions were delivered without inflection—or a pause for breath.

Sawyer hadn't mentioned an escort, Bruce thought as he replaced his driver's license. "Thank you," he said.

The officer's expression didn't change, but he did acknowledge Bruce with a nod. "You're welcome, sir," he returned in the same flat tone. "All paths on the premises are under electronic surveillance. Proceed to the designated location."

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes as he started the car again and drove through.

* * *

On the outside, the police academy looked like many of the private boarding schools that dotted the municipal map of Bristol Township. In addition to the main building, there were several others on the grounds. Based on the architecture, Bruce guessed that the oldest one he'd seen thus far—a dormitory, according to his guide—had been built in the 1930s. "Until about fifteen years ago, candidates were expected to sleep on campus, regardless of their proximity to the location," his guide—an officer who had been introduced to him as 'Sgt. Fochs'—said. "Now, it's mostly those from Evanstown and points south—mostly because the first GTARail out of Drescher wouldn't get you here until 0830 and an academy day starts at 0700 sharp."

Bruce blinked. "That's… surprising," he said slowly.

"The early start?" Fochs asked.

"No, not that," Bruce admitted. "I hadn't realized that the commuter trains aren't running that early."

"Remember," the sergeant said, "most people coming in from the suburbs are working downtown—and their workday probably starts around 0830, 0900 or so. We're all the way up north. To get from the south suburbs on public transit, commuters pass through the entire city, then ride the 'Rail through the country for another ten minutes, then wait another seven minutes for a local bus, and then ride that for _another_ twenty minutes to get to our front gate. And unlike the train, the bus could run behind if the traffic doesn't cooperate. And should they choose to drive in," Fochs continued, "well, an academy day ends at 1630. Officially, it's 1600, but there are usually physical exercises scheduled last, so by the time you've showered and you're back in your car, you're just in time to get caught in rush hour traffic." He shook his head soberly. "It can sometimes take over two hours just to clear the city limits, and it's not uncommon for traffic to be bumper-to-bumper for a bit beyond that." Fochs tilted his head to one side and smiled. "As you may have deduced by now, I used to live in Drescher, before I bit the bullet and made the move to the city."

Bruce smiled back.

"You ride?"

"Ride?" _Not drive?_ Since the officer had met him in the parking lot and knew he had a car, Bruce didn't think Fochs meant public transit. He frowned at what seemed to be a non sequitur. "You mean… horses?" Then he heard something that sounded suspiciously like hoof-beats coming from up ahead.

Maybe it wasn't such a non sequitur.

"Yeah," Fochs nodded. "It's not a requirement, but we do have a mounted division—mostly gets trotted out at parades and ceremonies, nowadays." He grinned. "Um… pun not intended. Anyway, if you do, you might want to mention it to Captain Alanguilan; he's always looking for officers who know their way around a horse. Stables are our next point of interest…" He broke off abruptly. "Side of the road," he ordered. "Now."

Bruce complied. A moment later, a blue-shirted officer mounted on a chestnut gelding cantered toward them.

"Whoa," the officer said, drawing to a stop. "How's it going, Guy?"

Fochs saluted smartly. "Morning, sir. Just giving the cadet the grand tour."

The officer looked Bruce up and down. Bruce gazed back levelly. After a moment, the officer turned back to Fochs. "Carry on, Sergeant." He kicked the horse back into a canter and continued down the path.

"Yes, that was Captain Alanguilan," Fochs remarked. "And yes, my name really is 'Guy Fochs.' My parents thought it was clever." He shook his head ruefully. "Let's proceed to the stables."

* * *

"You're in good shape," Fochs remarked, as they returned to the administration building. "Most new cadets are out of breath by now."

Bruce smiled. He'd guessed that Fochs had deliberately led him back to the building via an uphill route. He had to admit that he wouldn't have been able to keep up the pace had he attempted it shortly after his release from Arkham, but practice paid off.

"Well, that concludes our grand tour. At this point, I just need to walk you over to the registrar's office, you sign a few forms, and…" he shrugged. "…Guess you start testing. So, if you're having any second thoughts, this is your last chance," Fochs said seriously. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"

Bruce nodded, surprised to realize that he meant it. There were more than a few aspects of the program that he had issues with, but if this was his only sanctioned means of getting back in the cowl, then yes, he did want to proceed.

"Right," Fochs said, his friendly demeanor vanishing behind a veneer of stern professionalism. "In that case, I'll escort you to the office and, once you've taken care of the paperwork, we'll head over to supplies to get you fitted for your class A uniforms. You will also be issued a testing schedule and copies of _all_ GCPD policy manuals." The veneer fell away. "I don't envy you. You'll spend this afternoon getting acquainted with your drill instructors. One-on-one," he added, with a shake of his head. "The written tests will commence tomorrow at 0700 sharp. Don't be late," he added. "First, the invigilator won't allow you extra time. Second, if you're more than ten minutes late, it's an automatic zero—hey, watch it!" he barked sharply, as a uniformed officer barreled past, jostling Bruce in the process.

What happened next was pure instinct. Before his conscious mind could process that the other man was sliding a hunting knife out of his jacket, Bruce's body was already turning slightly away from the blade. He grasped his attacker's knife hand at the wrist, twisting it as he aimed a vicious kick at the man's right ankle. Momentum carried his attacker forward into an ungainly belly-flop. Bruce took a quick step forward and squatted, pulling his attacker's wrist out before him and locking the other man's arm against his knee.

The attacker struggled to break free, until a nerve strike made him release the knife with a pained yelp. Bruce picked up the knife wordlessly and presented it to Fochs, hilt first.

Fochs blinked. Then, recovering quickly from his surprise, he took the knife and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Bruce. "Use these," he said. As Bruce complied, he added, "I think I'm beginning to see why the top brass is willing to stretch a few policies to get you onside."

* * *

"What do you mean… 'an incident'?" Sawyer demanded. As she listened to the explanation, she felt her temper rise. "How did he get inside campus? Where did he get that uniform? How was he able to bring a hunting knife—which is emphatically not part of a standard uniform—into the administration building?"

Bad enough that an intruder had managed to infiltrate the academy campus, but do so with a knife that was more than a foot long! MacInnes started to say something, but she cut him off furiously. "You're missing the point here, Travis! Boneheaded or not, this trespasser attacked Wayne in OUR grounds—in a building teeming with cops! Someone WASN'T doing their job and I want to know why!"

Anger and consternation had her firing off questions as soon as they sprang to mind. "How long was he inside? Are you positive Wayne was his target? How about a grudge against cops in general?" Something about the administrator's tone finally got through to her and she took a deep breath. "The press will be all over this once it gets out. I want a detailed report, Travis—submitted to me by 1200 hours today—on _how_ this happened, _who_ messed up, and _what_ your team will do to keep this from happening again!" She took another breath. "After I read that report…" her tone softened slightly, "…we'll talk more." She returned the phone abruptly to its cradle.

Damn it! She'd known that something like this was likely to happen, just as she'd known that Wayne would probably be able to deal with it if it did. It still didn't negate the fact that there had been a security breach on their own turf. Next week, more than thirty new recruits would begin the latest academy program. They had the right to assume that they would be safe on the campus. And, she reminded herself, regardless of whether he actually assumed it or not, so did Wayne.

* * *

Captain MacInnes' eyebrows shot up as he listened to Fochs's report. "That fast?" he repeated when the officer was done, more musing aloud more than asking a question.

Fochs nodded earnestly. "I barely had time to blink before Mister… _Cadet_ Wayne was handing me his knife. I wish I'd had my stopwatch ready; it could have been a new academy record."

MacInnes grunted. "Where's the prisoner, now?"

"We turned him over to security."

"And Wayne?"

"He's waiting outside."

MacInnes grunted again. "Well, bring him in, Fochs," he said irritably. "Let's hear how he's doing."

Fochs got up at once and opened the office door. A moment later, Bruce followed him inside. He was carrying a stack of uniforms under one arm and an academy-issue navy blue baseball cap emblazoned with a round GCPD crest in his other hand. He stopped in front of the desk, and stood waiting, head up, shoulders back, and feet together.

MacInnes regarded him for a moment. "Report."

If Wayne was at all surprised or annoyed by the order, it didn't show. "I was attacked by a lone assailant wielding a fifteen-inch long hunting knife with a ten-and-a-half inch blade. I disarmed and subdued him, holding him until security arrived to take him into custody."

MacInnes nodded curtly. "You're being considered for advanced standing in most courses, cadet. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

MacInnes' eyes narrowed. Wayne had already avoided one of the classic rookie moves: nodding while responding. "There's a module on report writing included in the curriculum. Consider this an extra credit assignment: I want a full written report on this incident, properly filled out and formatted, along with any recommendations you may have to prevent something like this from reoccurring."

"Yes, sir." Wayne frowned. He seemed as though he was about to say something more, but he thought better of it.

"Problem, cadet?"

Wayne hesitated. "May I make a recommendation now?"

MacInnes smiled thinly. "Eager? Go ahead. But I'll still expect to read that detail in your report."

Wayne took a deep breath. "My presence here constitutes an unnecessary risk to all other personnel. The best way to prevent an incident like this from reoccurring would be to remove me from the program."

"Recommendation considered and rejected," MacInnes replied without hesitation. As Wayne opened his mouth to protest, MacInnes held up a hand. "Shut up and listen, cadet. This may come as a surprise, but for some strange reason, peace officers tend to make enemies. We're not always well-thought-of in all quarters. Sometimes, people threaten us, pull deadly weapons on us, even target our families. We take that sort of thing extremely seriously. But we do not throw one of our own to the wolves. Now Sergeant Fochs tells me that you've signed the necessary paperwork and the fact that you're standing here holding your uniforms tells me the same thing. That means that right now, you, Cadet Wayne, are one of our own. I may not like having to put together an accelerated testing schedule for you, and I may not be one of your biggest supporters, but that doesn't change the fact that, unless you wash out of here—which might very well happen, but until it does—you are one of ours. Save the heroic sacrifices for field duty."

He waved a hand. "Get out of here. You have 25 minutes to get into uniform and out on parade grounds. Let's see if you're as fast with that as you are with disarming a hostile. I look forward to your report by 0700 tomorrow." He reached for a stack of paperwork. "You're dismissed, cadet."

He had his own report to write, though he was damned if he knew what kind of recommendations he could make in under four hours. He'd been half-hoping that Wayne would have a suggestion off the bat; one that Sawyer would endorse. He gave a mental sigh. Of course, Wayne's advice had crossed his mind, but removing him from the program wouldn't address the real issue: someone had managed to breach their security. Sawyer had been right about that: if it could happen once, it could happen again. MacInnes knit his eyebrows together. Well, he'd come up with something short-term and hope it satisfied her. He doubted it would, but it wasn't as though she was giving him much time to come up with options. He was curious to read Wayne's report. From all accounts, this sort of thing ought to be right up his alley. And if Wayne came up with something tomorrow, then who gave a damn if it wouldn't be in the report he was going to submit to Sawyer today? He still needed it!

* * *

"We found Fuller in the guard booth, tied up, gagged, and unconscious," the sergeant reported. "Paramedics were called. I think they're still on campus."

MacInnes nodded curtly. He'd already found out that much. "Sergeant," he began, "I…"

"Will someone tell me what's going on?" A hoarse voice demanded from behind the locked door. "Hey!"

MacInnes frowned at the second officer standing guard outside. "How long has he been like that?" he asked.

The officer shook his head. "You're not going to like this," he said.

"I _already_ don't like it," MacInnes retorted. "But I asked you a question."

The officer snapped to attention. "Captain, the prisoner continued to resist while being escorted to lockup. In his struggles, he succeeded in dislodging his cap."

"His cap," MacInnes repeated, feeling sick, as he realized why the officer was making mention of it. "You mean…"

"As soon as the prisoner was bareheaded," the guard nodded, "his behavior changed dramatically. He appeared to have no idea where he was or why he was under guard. I've sent the cap to the lab for analysis, sir, but I _have_ seen this sort of thing before."

MacInnes let out a heavy sigh. "As have I, sergeant. Better get used to seeing it more often." He shook his head. "As long as Wayne is on-site, it's a safe assumption that the Mad Hatter will try this again. And he probably won't be the only costumed kook to come out of the woodwork."

* * *

"Slacking off already, cadet?" the drill sergeant barked. "Come on, Batman. You can give me another forty!"

Bruce kept his face impassive as he performed his one hundred sixty-first push-up. He hadn't broken a sweat yet, which only seemed to irritate the man standing over him. At first, he'd considered holding back, but then thought better of it. He didn't have to pretend to be out of shape anymore, and he'd only find himself facing more drill work if they thought he wasn't up to par.

After he'd completed the set, the drill sergeant eyed him as though he were a particularly stubborn stain on a uniform. "One hundred ab crunches!" he snapped. "Five sets of twenty; let's GO, cadet!"

With a mental sigh, Bruce rolled onto his back, bent his knees, and placed his hands behind his head. _One…_

* * *

Driving back to the manor some four hours later, Bruce was planning on a long soak in a hot bath. The shower he'd taken at the academy had refreshed him, but in a few hours, he knew, the effects of the callisthenics, sprinting, distance running, and obstacle course would begin to tell on him.

It wasn't exactly as though the drill sergeant had demanded of Bruce any more than he normally demanded of himself. However, there was a qualitative difference between exerting yourself to meet goals that you had set for yourself, and exerting yourself to meet goals imposed by another party.

He'd done two hundred push-ups before he'd realized that Drill Sgt. Craigie hadn't had a predetermined number of repetitions in mind for each exercise. Rather, his aim had been to push Bruce right to the edge—stopping just shy of driving him over into sports injury territory. Going by the relief he'd felt just to lean back in the driver's seat when he'd finally gotten back to his car, he suspected that this aim had been accomplished. He reminded himself that he'd endured worse, summoned a basic meditation technique to suppress his fatigue and the first faint signs of muscle stiffness, and concentrated on the road.

Despite himself, Bruce's lips twitched. When this stint with the GCPD was over, it might be worthwhile to see if Craigie was interested in becoming his personal trainer.

He turned on the radio and his nascent smile died.

"The PMWE building was evacuated nearly an hour ago, when police received an anonymous tip that there was an explosive device on the premises. An emergency response team is on the scene…"

* * *

Dick was sitting at his desk when Sal Fiorini stepped into his work area.

"Something's come up and I need you to come by the security office, if you have a minute."

Dick's eyebrows shot up. Risk management did involve safety of a kind, but his duties rarely overlapped with those of the head of building security. "Now?"

"Right now." There was something about Sal's expression that told Dick that it wasn't a casual request. He locked his paperwork in his desk and followed him up two flights of stairs.

"Hope you don't mind the exercise," Fiorini said. "But if I ever got trapped in an elevator, I wouldn't live it down, and it's only two floors anyway."

Dick grinned. "Suits me fine," he said as Fiorini pulled open the stairwell door. He waited until they were in the security office, before he asked, "Okay. What's going on?"

Fiorini's expression turned deadly serious. "Five minutes ago, the police informed me that there may be a bomb on the premises. At least, someone phoned them to report it. I'm thirty seconds away from ordering a general evacuation, but it occurred to me that you might be better equipped to handle something like this."

Dick frowned. "But the police are on their way, right?"

"Eventually." Sal shook his head with a long-suffering sigh. "They have to investigate, of course. But then, the tipster claimed the bomb was going off in six hours, didn't give any further details, and this _is_ Gotham. SOP is to get everyone out of the building and wait for the bomb squad to give the all-clear. But it might be well over an hour before they get here." He reached for the intercom and froze with his hand on the toggle switch. "I'm giving the order, but if you think you can handle things, you don't need to abide by it."

Dick nodded. "Bomb defusing is part of my skill-set," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "But it would help if I could get a little more information. Did you want my cell phone number to call once you're outside?"

Fiorini picked turned on the intercom and calmly directed all personnel to leave the building immediately via the emergency exits. Then he turned back to Dick. "I'll need to stick around until the floor wardens confirm everyone's out. As long as I'm here, what do you need?"

"To figure out how anyone could have brought in an explosive without getting stopped by security," Dick replied. "All bags are checked at the front desk. Access by any other door is by keycard only—so it's either an in-house job, a hoax, or someone tailgated. But how they got in, assuming it's not a hoax, isn't the main issue. Someone would have to set up the bomb and place it where it could do some damage, but where it wouldn't be spotted early. Mr. Fiorini…"

"Call me Sal."

"Sal... you know as well as I do that if there's one thing PMWE has always taken seriously, it's been building security. Besides a bunch of other measures, we have cameras _everywhere_. The first thing I need to know is if there are any places where they aren't. If not..." He sighed. "If not, I'm going to need to get back to my office. I have some equipment I keep around in case I'm working late and don't have time to get home before..."

"...Starting your other job," Sal nodded. "What kind of equipment?"

Dick shrugged. "Pretty much what the bomb squad is going to be carrying. Unfortunately, not every explosive device is the size of a stereo amp with colored wires and a countdown clock." His expression took on a seriousness that belied the lightness of his tone. "The guy who firebombed those warehouses on the riverfront and blew up Arkham? He did it with cell phones. Our device might be lying out there in plain view, or it could be locked up in someone's desk drawer. To find it, I'm going to need the right tools."

* * *

"It was in the mailroom," Dick announced some forty-five minutes later. "Looks like it was set up more to scare than do any real damage; it's a stink bomb. A nasty one, but I've disabled it."

"Good work," Sal's voice came through over the cell phone. "The bomb squad's just pulling up. Better let them see if there's anything left to find."

Dick looked again at the note that had been taped to the canister of malodorant: _Next time, we won't call first. It won't just be putrescine. Keep PMWE vigilante-free. This is your only warning._ "I'm pretty sure this one isn't a decoy," he said in a more subdued tone. "But sure, let them have a look."

"Is everything all right?"

Dick hesitated. "You know that other job I've got? From the look of it, someone out there doesn't like me moonlighting. There's a note—"

The security chief cut him off. "Give it to the police when they arrive. Wayne Enterprises doesn't give in to terrorism. We never have and we never will."

"I can't endanger everyone else," Dick protested, even as it registered that Sal Fiorini had just referred to the company by its original name. "Look, there's no reason why I can't telecommute."

"Sure there is," Fiorini shot back. "There are a lot of reasons. One: we don't give in to terrorism. Two: if we made an exception in this case, somehow I don't think that you continuing to work for the company, offsite or on, will satisfy their demands. Three: we're not setting up a precedent of throwing anyone to the wolves just because someone out there disagrees with a hiring decision. Four: tell me that, when you found that bomb, you weren't already figuring out how to prevent any further suspicious parcels from getting in."

Dick let out a breath that sounded almost like a chuckle. "I… might have had an idea or two."

"Good. That's something we should meet to discuss. Are you free tonight?"

"Tonight?" Dick repeated. "I've got that other job."

"What time do you clock off?"

"Um… that… that depends." He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "I don't really have set hours."

There was a pause. "If you finish before two," Fiorini said finally, "call me. I'll have my ringer on until then. Otherwise, I'll expect you in my office at seven tomorrow morning. When we're done, if you want to go home and sleep, go right ahead, but I'm not comfortable leaving a security breach unplugged for any length of time. Clear?"

Dick looked at the note again and heard once more the mocking voice that still haunted his nightmares. _You won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death… How do you like being alone, Dick?_ Then his fist closed around the sheet of paper, crumpling it in his hand—the hand that Blockbuster had told him he'd never be able to shake again. That was then. This was now. He wasn't alone. He didn't have to isolate himself to protect the people he cared about. He was about to throw the note into the shred bin, when he remembered that the police would need it for evidence. "Clear," he repeated. "See you outside."

Then he turned and walked out of the mailroom, doing his best to smooth the page with his gloved hands as he did.

* * *

Bruce was waiting for him when he pulled his car into the cave. He barely waited for Dick to get out of the car, before he demanded…

"Are you all right?" Dick asked at the same time. "I heard—"

"—about the knife attack..."

"—about the bomb scare," Bruce's eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about that? I hardly think it would have been on the news."

Dick shrugged. "Your captain talked to Sawyer. Sawyer talked to her computer. Her computer talked to Babs." A glimmer of a smile flickered across his face. "Sawyer's probably just keeping it on file as CYA in case you got hurt and you—or we—tried to sue them for recklessly endangering you." He waited for Bruce to meet his eyes. "Not meaning to fuss or anything, but you _are_ okay, right?"

Bruce smiled. "Better than. I wasn't even scratched. How about you?"

Dick shrugged again. "I'm standing here, talking to you." His expression turned serious. "Babs told you to be on your guard, right?"

"Yes." Bruce frowned. "I did suggest to the captain that my presence might needlessly endanger the other cadets."

"Great minds," Dick grinned. "I made a similar argument to Sal Fiorini, earlier, once it became clear that the bomb scare was directed at me. Your captain buy it?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, but he appears to be putting the responsibility for resolving the issue on my shoulders. I need to submit a report with my recommendations tomorrow." He made a face. "Or maybe he's trying to ensure I won't have as much time to prepare for the written tests tomorrow. He made it fairly clear that he doesn't approve of my arrangement with Sawyer."

Dick nodded. "I'd be surprised if he did. Remember: cops generally go by the book for some very good reasons; including making sure that the DA's case doesn't get thrown out because of incorrectly gathered evidence. And," he added, "making sure that civilians aren't hurt in the crossfire because someone wanted to play hero." He held up a placating hand as Bruce started to bristle. "Hey. We both know that's not how we do things… and you've done a pretty good job of teaching me not to believe all the hype. But c'mon. They see 'former JLA member' and they think 'hero.'" His face fell. "They think 'going by the book' and they don't think you."

Bruce nodded glumly. "Sawyer's attempts to smooth the road for me could be taken as an illustration of your point. They're likely to backfire."

"Yeah," Dick nodded. "Expect resentment. Mind you, there is a way to counter it, but you'll hate that too."

"Forget the advanced standing and just enroll in the regular courses like everyone else?" Bruce shook his head. "I can live with the resentment. I don't need to be liked. I just need to get through this." He raised his eyebrows. "What happened with Fiorini?"

Dick thought for a moment. "Apparently, the same thing that happened with your captain. Looks like I'm going to be looking at ways to shore up security at WE—and by the way, that was Sal's choice of abbreviation, not mine."

Bruce lifted his head. "Do you think that's significant?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Dick said with a slight frown. "Sal's been with the company for almost twenty years. It could have slipped out. But it could also mean that he'd back you if you wanted to start becoming more active. Want me to sound him out in the morning?"

"No. Don't rock the boat yet," Bruce said firmly. "Mind you, if he asks what my plans are…" Bruce hesitated. "Don't share too much. If Sal turns out to support Paxton's camp… or whoever's camp it is, now that Paxton appears to be on his way out, I'd rather we hadn't discussed everything with him. Use your judgment."

Dick nodded. "Did you want me to help you cram tonight?"

"No," Bruce sighed. "I have to write that report. And then," he shook his head, "the examinations start at seven. I should know the material well enough. I'm just going to take the practice tests in the policy manuals, and as long as I get better than a bare pass, I'm not going to worry."

"Good luck."

* * *

Bruce arrived at the academy at half-past six, with the report in his hand. On the surface, it wasn't particularly different from the reports that he'd filed in the past. In fact, he'd had to revise it several times. Over the years, he'd developed his own style of shorthand. He also was wont to include speculation, hypotheses, and extrapolations—none of which had any bearing in a standard police report.

At first it had thrown him for a loop, as MacInnes had specifically asked for his recommendations—which seemed to demand that he speculate, hypothesize, and extrapolate. In the end, he'd drawn up the report as shown in the policy manual, keeping to the bare facts, but including the recommendations as an appendix.

After taking the three practice tests for the examinations that he was writing today, he'd managed to get nearly four hours of sleep. There had been a time when that would have been more than sufficient, but he'd needed three cups of coffee at breakfast. Probably, he thought with grim humor, it wasn't the late nights, but the early mornings that he found problematic.

It didn't bother him that—apart from his driving test—he hadn't had to take a written examination since he'd left school at fourteen. Instead, he focused on remembering the chain of command, and accepting that—for the first time in a long time—he was at the very bottom of it.

It helped if he pretended that he was undercover…

"Morning, Cadet," MacInnes greeted him. "How are you today?"

Bruce smiled. "Good, sir, thank you. I have the report you requested," he added, holding it out. Never mind that it had taken a hot bath, another of Selina's massages, and some advanced meditation to compensate for what Craigie had put him through yesterday. He wasn't about to complain.

MacInnes frowned. "Cadet Wayne," he said with evident displeasure, "when an individual inquires after your health, it's only polite to respond in kind."

Bruce blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I asked you how you were. You failed to reciprocate." He shook his head. "Do you not care about the well-being of the people with whom you interact on a daily basis?"

Had he somehow missed a unit on _greetings_ in all of those policy manuals? He couldn't believe that MacInnes was making such an issue out this. He had to be trying to provoke him. Bruce suppressed his irritation. "How are you this morning, sir?" he asked blandly.

MacInnes eyed Bruce as though he was trying to determine whether he was being mocked. "Well, thank you, cadet," he said finally. "Sergeant Fochs should be waiting outside to escort you to the examination room. You're dismissed."

Bruce wheeled smartly on his heel. Clearly, that conversation had been some sort of contest. The problem was, Bruce wasn't sure who'd won.

* * *

Sal let out a low whistle as he scanned the file on Dick's USB stick. "I thought I knew a lot about security," he remarked, "but you've got a couple of tricks here that never would have occurred to me."

Dick turned his face away in embarrassment. "Those aren't the only things we can do that we aren't already doing," he said, "but it seems to strike the best compromise between keeping the site secure and letting people do their jobs without feeling like they're in a prison." He smothered a yawn.

"Coffee?" Sal offered.

Dick shook his head. "I had some before I came in."

"Rough night?"

Dick shrugged. "Actually, it was relatively quiet."

"Relative to what?"

Dick's lips twitched. "Well, we didn't get hit by an earthquake. Nobody broke out of Arkham. Nobody decided to use Gotham as their test lab for the latest bio-weapon, and the sun didn't go nova. It was quiet."

Sal laughed at that. "Sorry. I guess I'm just… torn between idle curiosity and the realization that maybe I don't want all the details."

"You don't," Dick smiled back. "Seriously. Was there anything else?"

Sal studied his screen for a moment. "This detection and deterrent system," he said. "It looks like we have most of the components around already. Question for you: do you have the expertise to assemble something like this?" he stabbed the screen with his finger.

Dick walked around Sal's desk so that he could see the display. "Sure. It's a little tricky to get the initial template set up, but then it's just a question of not making typos in the coding." He grinned. "On the other hand, there's a lot of coding involved."

Sal nodded. "I can see that. But it's something you know how to do?"

Dick nodded back. "Bruce taught me years ago."

"Bruce?" Sal's eyebrow shot up. "That's good to know."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," Sal said. "Go home. Get some sleep. But come and see me tomorrow before you clock in."

* * *

"So, you'll be home in about a half-hour?" Barbara asked. "Have you eaten yet?"

Dick thought. "Does an energy bar count?"

"Do peanut butter pancakes sound better?"

He didn't have to think about that one. "I love you. But make it an hour. I have a stop to make first."

* * *

He didn't usually go out in costume in broad daylight, but he suspected that once he finally lay down, he might sleep the day _and_ night away. Of course, there was no rule that said he _had_ to confront his quarry within the next 24 hours. Still, it didn't do to let Hush think that matters could be left to lie. At this point, it was pure psychological warfare. Hush wasn't going to back down—not from one visit, anyway. However, if Dick could plant a small seed of trepidation in his adversary's heart now, it might well bear fruit down the road. _And if I were one of the bad guys_ , he added mentally, _I'd probably want to insert an evil chuckle right about now…_

He had his own way to get into Blackgate. Years ago, some convict had tried to tunnel to freedom, aiming to break through to an underwater cave and make it through to the mainland with some smuggled-in scuba gear. He'd miscalculated and hit solid rock.

Bruce had later detected the tunnel and, figuring that most of the work was already done, burrowed up from the underwater cave until he broke through to the passage. Then he'd installed a hatch with an electronic lock, camouflaging it so that, on the off chance anyone inside the prison stumbled upon the earlier convict's work the hatch would be indistinguishable from the rest of the tunnel floor.

Dick made sure that the Harbor Patrol was out of the area before he took the Batsub into the cave. He knew the guards' routines by now, as well as the blind spots on every security camera. It wasn't long until he was inside the prison and ensconced in a shadowy corner, safe from prying eyes. At this hour, Hush would almost certainly be in one of the workshops or in the yard. "O?" he spoke into his comm-link. "Are you in?"

"What kept you?" Barbara sounded amused. "They oughta be ashamed of how easy it was to hack their grid."

"Or maybe you're just that good."

"Flatterer."

"Every chance I get." His tone turned serious. "Okay, where's Hush?"

"Hang on," Barbara said. "A visual search will take too long. If I can just get a look at his work assignment… bingo!"

Dick waited. A minute went by. Two… Five…

"O?" he asked finally. "Everything okay on your end?"

There was another pause—this one lasting only a few seconds. "I've just been reviewing the footage. He was there in the morning. Security tapes show him heading down to breakfast. Then… nothing."

He knew what she was telling him, but some part of him still wanted to hear her say it. "Nothing?" he repeated.

"I don't show him ever making it to the mess hall. Or anywhere else in the prison afterwards. If you're asking me… I think he's out."


	17. 16. Good Pretender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The police learn a few unpleasant truths about their would-be assassin. Cass is still struggling with her GED prep. And Bruce prepares for his hardest test yet!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Great Disguise" written by Matraca Berg, Gary Harrion, and Harry Stinson. Recorded by Martina McBride on her Wild Angels album (RCA Nashville, 1995).
> 
> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama and Kathy for help with physical training. Thanks to PJ for help with police testing.

_Keep 'em guessin', keep 'em laughin'_  
Build that wall up high  
As long as they don't see the other side…

… _But when the sun goes down_  
And the moon is high  
There's no way to hide the truth from me, myself, and I  
Yeah, I wear it well  
Though it ain't my size  
I'm just a good pretender in a great disguise

— _Matraca Berg, Gary Harrison, Harry Stinson, "A Great Disguise_

**Chapter 16: Good Pretender**

"He couldn't have just vanished into thin air," Batman said flatly. "Wouldn't they have missed him in the workshop?"

There was a pause. "You're right," Oracle said finally, irritation plain in her tone. "They should have. Want me to review the tapes… see if… oh, I dunno, I can find Hush on the recording bribing a guard to look the other way?"

Batman considered. "Hush is a bit too good to let himself be caught doing anything like that on a security camera." He sighed. "Okay. I'm coming home."

"You don't want to talk to the warden?" Oracle asked, surprise evident in her tone.

"I've met him before," Batman returned. "He won't believe that Hush is gone until one of his own guards reports it. I can talk to him until I'm blue in the face… or I can come home, have breakfast, and go to sleep… safe in the knowledge that some gorgeous redhead—and I'm not mentioning names—phoned in an anonymous tip to GCPD. _They'll_ have a better chance of getting Warden Perkins to pay attention."

Oracle gave an exaggerated sigh. "The things I do for love," she muttered. In a normal tone of voice, she continued, "You don't seem that upset."

"No," Batman admitted. "I guess… because, if our hunch is right, he was already manipulating events from within Blackgate. In or out, he's just as dangerous. So, I guess it makes our job just as challenging, no matter which side of these walls he's on." _He hoped._ "I'll be home in about a half hour."

* * *

In a wood-paneled examination room at the Gotham City Police Academy, Bruce frowned at the examination packet before him and tried to remember what he and Jim had gone over.

**Question 11: Possible consequences of ethics violations include:**

**a. Large-scale civil suits**

**b. Misconduct publicized in the media**

**c. Loss of public respect**

**d. Demotion, stagnation or termination**

**e. All of the Above**

That one was easy. He checked "e".

**Question 12: Which of the following is NOT a type of civil legal action for monetary damages that can be brought against police officers?**

**a. Assault and battery**

**b. Reckless driving**

**c. False Imprisonment**

**d. Malicious prosecution and abuse of process**

**e. Negligence**

That gave him pause. They all sounded plausible. He closed his eyes for a moment and pressed the end of the pen against his forehead. He knew that assault and battery belonged on the list; he'd had to endure several jibes over the past few week about how his "normal" actions as Batman—and he couldn't even tell himself that the officers who had brought it up had been distorting the facts—wouldn't be acceptable. Reckless driving… He remembered when Jim had found out that one of his officers had been behind the wheel, three sheets to the wind and hadn't hit the brakes in time to avoid a pedestrian. False imprisonment… that one hadn't on the list of charges that the DA's office had been preparing against him, before he'd been remanded to Arkham—surprising, considering the number of charges that _had_ made that list. Wait. The question was about civil—not criminal—action. And in that case… He smiled. In that case he knew the answer. At least, his eyebrows drew together, he thought he did… His frown deepened as he made his checkmark and then drew a faint line under the question number—an indicator to himself that this was one he should look at again, presuming he'd have time to review. He smiled despite himself. Dick's optimism was finally rubbing off. His eyes dipped down to the next question.

* * *

MacInnes studied the report on his desk. "Zachary Langton," he read the name aloud.

The lieutenant nodded soberly. "Ex-marine, special ops, served in Iraq in 2004. After an honorable discharge, he went into business consulting—but not before he was accepted to this academy."

The captain's head jerked up at that. "Go on."

"There's not a lot more to tell," the lieutenant said. "Langton formally withdrew from the academy in his third week, stating that he felt that law enforcement wasn't an avenue he felt comfortable pursuing at the time."

MacInnes nodded. Many ex-military personnel joined the police force and went on to serve with distinction, but there were always some who needed more of a change of pace. It sounded like Langton had realized that in training. His eyes narrowed. "If he spent three weeks here..." His voice trailed off. He frowned at the lieutenant. "Did he board here?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant nodded again.

MacInnes exhaled. "So, he spent three weeks living inside campus," he said slowly. "Presumably 24-7, or close to it. So either Hatter got incredibly lucky, or he knew exactly whose hat to plant a control chip in."

The lieutenant's eyes widened. "An ex-marine... so he would have known how to handle weapons. He'd also know about camouflage and stealth tactics. Lived on the grounds long enough to know the layout here."

"Exactly," MacInnes glowered. "Hatter didn't grab some random guy off the street—or if he did, no. Nobody's that lucky. He knew who he was using. Only..."

"Sir?"

MacInnes brought his fist down on his desk blotter. "Hatter's working with someone," he said. "That or we have a copycat. From everything we know about the creep, he's smart. He'd have to be, to create those mind control chips. But, finding someone with a specific skill-set to do his dirty work..."

His pale complexion reddened. "Hatter didn't just wander onto a military base. He found someone in civilian life who had exactly the expertise needed to get on campus and try to murder Wayne. The thing that bugs me about that is that Hatter's never been this meticulous. So either he's been learning from past mistakes, or he's got a partner, or there's a new player in town trying to horn in on his act." He sighed. "And whichever it is, it means more headaches. I'll let the commish know."

* * *

Barbara checked her security camera before opening the apartment door. "Cass," she smiled. "This is a surprise."

"Tried window," Cass explained. "Locked."

Barbara nodded. "Sorry about that. I wasn't expecting anyone to show up there after sunrise. What can I do for you?"

Cass sighed. "Essay."

"For the GED?" Barbara asked, wheeling toward the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. "It's still giving you trouble?"

"Yes," Cass rolled her eyes. "Same. Always. Same mistakes. Dr. Arkham says I…" She looked down. "I ramble. Ramble is… is babble, right? When I speak I don't. So why… how… when I write?"

Barbara stopped and rolled around to face her. "Take a breath, Cass," she advised, holding up her hands. "Did you bring me an example? Let's have a look." The coffee could wait.

Cass bit her lip. Then she reached into her tote bag and pulled out two sheets of paper folded in half. "Dr. Arkham says," she said faintly, "I… am," she tilted her head to one side, "making progress," her voice took on a faint nasal quality. Barbara stifled a smile at the unconscious mimicry. "But I keep… making mistakes."

Barbara unfolded the sheets and read them frowning. Cass watched.

"Bad, huh?"

"Well…"

Cass sighed. "Barbara, please don't say… good… for _me_. Good for me is… is knowing letters. Writing name. That's good… because," she squeezed her eyes shut, "because before I… didn't. But I need… more. For GED, essay has to be good. Not… good for me. Good for _real_."

Barbara winced. "Cass," she said slowly, trying to phrase her response carefully, "there's a lot of good stuff in here." She smiled. " _Really_ good stuff. Your big problem—I mean, besides the punctuation and the choppy sentences—is organizing your information."

"Choppy sentences," Cass scowled.

"You can pass the GED with choppy sentences," Barbara said. "You won't get a good mark, but you can pass." At Cass's disbelieving look, she continued, "Not everyone comes out of high school as a good writer. They're testing you to make sure that…" She thought for a moment. "Okay, at the hospital, the staff has to record information about each patient. They need to report what condition the patient was in when they came in, what the treatment was, what the result was, and so on."

"That's not essay!" Cass replied.

"No, it's not. But it's writing. Writing that's been organized so that someone reading the report can find the information they're looking for easily—because if the report is organized properly, they don't have to work as hard to find what they want to know." She thought for a moment. "Actually…"

She was silent long enough for Cass to take a step forward. "What… actually?"

Barbara smiled. "That could work. And maybe give you and Bruce more to talk about."

"What?"

Barbara's smile grew bigger. "Let's go upstairs. I want to show you some study guides Daddy asked me to help him put together for Bruce. There was one on writing police reports. You're right," she went on excitedly, "they're not the same as essays. But maybe if you think of them as outlines…" she continued as she rolled toward the door.

Cass trailed behind. "Rambling…" she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that…"

* * *

Bruce was looking forward to another session with Craigie. After he was done with this panel, he was going to need to burn off some frustration.

The lieutenant pushed up her glasses and pressed her index and middle fingers to the spot between her eyes. Then she let the glasses drop again and looked down over her lectern at Bruce. "I see," she said neutrally, "that for most of your answers, you indicate that, in the event that you were to witness an ethics violation on the part of a fellow officer, you would immediately bring it to the attention of your superior."

Bruce met her gaze squarely. "Correct."

"You have a history of taking matters into your own hands," she stated. "How do you know you won't revert to type?"

Bruce knew it was a fair question. That didn't make it any less irritating. "When I acquired that history," he said, keeping his tone even, "I had no chain of command. Or rather, I was at the top of it. That's no longer the case."

"How can you be sure you won't be tempted?"

Bruce blinked. He felt his features shift automatically into his blandest social expression. "I'm sure I _will_ be tempted," he replied. "Old habits are hard to break. However, when I decided to accept Commissioner Sawyer's offer, I made a commitment to abide by GCPD policies. You're correct, Ma'am. I'll probably want to deal with the matter myself, but I think I'll be able to control that desire."

"Ah, yes," the lieutenant nodded. "Control. I was getting to that. Specifically, your need to be directly involved in every aspect of a case. Detective work, interrogation..." Her voice hardened. "On the essay portion of your examination, you had indicated that," she rustled some pages. "Ah, yes," she repeated. "Here it is." She raised her eyebrows with exaggerated surprise. "You indicate that you would report a fellow officer who exercised undue force on a suspect." She set the pages down. "Despite your track record for handling issues directly, you expect us to believe that you would follow the chain of command, all of a sudden?"

Bruce could feel himself going on the defensive and forced his voice to stay neutral. "Yes."

"Even though you've done more or less the same thing in the past? You don't find that hypocritical?"

"I may not have followed GCPD policies and procedures at the time," Bruce retorted, "but I _did_ follow a code of conduct."

"Of your own devising."

"Yes."

"And when that code became inconvenient? Did you ever just say 'The hell with it' and do what you felt like? Since you _were_ the only person you had to answer to."

"No."

The eyebrows were up again. "No? Can you elaborate, Cadet Wayne?"

Bruce took a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm. "I wasn't the only person I had to answer to. Although I did not directly report to any higher authority, I knew that if certain lines were… if I were to cross certain lines, then it would jeopardize my then-working relationship with the GCPD. It would jeopardize my self-respect. And it would jeopardize my relationships with my colleagues—some of whom I trained and expected to adhere to my code. Commanders may have the authority to override policy under certain circumstances—" His lips twitched. "The signal on the roof of GCPD headquarters springs to mind as an example; I was working with the GCPD long before my affiliation with the Justice League and the UN sanction conferred by that relationship. However, just because a commander _may_ override policy, doesn't mean that they aren't accountable when they do. Had I overstepped my boundaries, I have no doubt that then-Commissioner Gordon would have given the order to bring me in." He looked away for a moment. Then he took another deep breath. "Which did transpire when I… overstepped my boundaries during the Akins administration and twenty-eight GCPD officers paid the price."

It would have come up sooner or later, he knew. It couldn't _not_ come up, either during one of these panels or during the training. It was best to take the bull by the horns and deal with it now.

Steely eyes regarded him for a moment. Then the lieutenant raised her eyebrows again. "So, hijacking the police band radio frequency and encouraging officers to mutiny wasn't against your… code of ethics. And you say you'll have no difficulty adjusting your methods to fit ours, hmmm?"

Bruce bit back an angry retort and waited for the next question.

* * *

"It's too bad Mr. Kent had to go back to Metropolis," Barbara said. "He could probably help you with this."

Cass nodded. "He writes," she said.

"Not only does he write," Barbara replied, "he reports."

Cass frowned. "Writes… reports. Like… like what you want to show me? What Bruce has to do?"

"No, more like what you have to do," Barbara said. "See, a report answers six basic questions: What happened? Who did it happen to? Where did it happen? When did it happen? How did it happen? And… why did it happen? That's what's in the reports that Bruce is going to have to file."

Cass frowned. "He… does. Already. After patrol." She looked down. "Used to, I mean. Before…"

"Right," Barbara said with a sad smile. "So he shouldn't have too much trouble doing it again. The difference between writing a report and writing articles—which is what Mr. Kent does," Barbara grinned, "and yes, that makes him a reporter, not an articler; English is weird that way… is that once Mr. Kent has the answers to those questions he puts them all together and turns them into a story. Not made-up," she clarified, "although figuring out the answers to those questions can help in writing fiction, too. But what Mr. Kent does is answer those questions in a way that flows. Hang on. Trust me?"

Cass blinked. "Um… Maybe?"

Barbara sighed. "Here. Let me print off an article for you; sometimes, it's harder reading it off a screen." At the expression on her companion's face, Barbara smiled. "I'll make it a short one. Here," her finger stabbed the monitor. "Three paragraphs on a—" She caught herself. "Actually, you're going to tell me _what_ it's about. And _who, when, where, why_ , and _how_ , too."

"Fun."

"Just try it, Cass. Humor me."

"Humor…you? Make you… funny? I… I don't…"

"It means 'please do it because I asked you to, even if you don't think it'll help'."

"Oh. Okay." She took the printout and read it slowly, sliding her finger from one word to the next as she sounded out the letters under her breath. Barbara watched her for a few moments before she opened a session on a new monitor and began to tackle a low-priority assignment for the Justice League. It was nearly forty minutes before Cass approached.

"Okay," she said heavily. "What happened is fire. Who… it says nobody hurt. When is last night. Where is East End. Why… they think accident. How… e-electrical," she frowned. "Or is that why, too?"

"Sometimes there's an overlap. Now," she handed Cass a second sheet of paper, "take a look at this. It's a report filed by a fire-fighter who was there last night. Look it over and tell me what you think of it."

This time, Cass was back sooner. "It's… the same questions. Same answers. But… boring. No. Sorry. I…" she gestured over to the table where she'd left the first printout. "That one is…" Her eyes widened. "It… flows. Right?" With rising excitement, she pointed at the page in her hand. "And this one… the data is there… but… it's… um… it's…"

"Dry?" Barbara prompted.

"Dry?" For a moment, Cass frowned. Then her face cleared. "Oh. Water… flows. So opposite of 'flows…' is 'dry'. Yes. Dry. I… see."

Barbara smiled. "Close enough. Okay. So what a reporter does is take the dry information in a report and make it flow. But here's where writing reports can help you with your essays. If you look carefully, you'll notice that the information in the report is organized so that you can find out what's going on. In the essays you showed me, it looked like you were just writing down ideas as fast as you could and stopping when you ran out of things to put down."

Cass shifted from one foot to the other. "Um…"

Barbara smiled. "Okay," she said again. "Writing an essay isn't exactly the same as writing a report, because you're not telling a story, so much as giving your opinion. What you're doing is summing up the facts that support what you're trying to prove and answering one more question: So?"

"So?"

Barbara nodded. "As in, 'So what is so important about this?' or 'So what should we do about it?' Or 'So why have I spent all this time writing about this?' By the way," she grinned "they won't take 'it was the easiest essay topic on the list' as an answer."

Cass nodded, but she was still frowning. "Okay…"

Barbara thought for a moment. "Do you remember when we watched _Titanic_?"

Cass nodded.

"Good. I want you to think about how more people could have been saved. What do you think they could have done to save more lives? Then," she said seriously, "I want you to try to put that in an essay. Start with a report first, though. I think it'll help you organize your ideas so that you can get your ideas out clearly. Do you understand how to do that?"

"Answer questions," Cass said slowly. "How… and what… and… where and why and…"

"You might find that some of those answers are more important than others," Barbara admitted. "But I think you're catching on. Oh, and Cass? Don't think you have to write pages and pages. Just make it about as long as the essay you showed me. Figure out two or three things that could have been done differently, and write about those."

Cass sighed. "It seems like… so much. Nothing… easier?"

Barbara sighed sympathetically. "There isn't any one technique that works for everyone," she said. "What you've been doing until now hasn't been working as well as you'd like. Maybe this'll be better. Give it a shot."

Cass frowned for a moment, thinking. Then she took a fresh sheet of paper out of the printer tray. "Okay," she said hesitantly, but with greater assurance than she'd shown earlier. "I'll… try."

* * *

"I see you actually listened to me when I told you to get some rest," Sal said cheerfully.

Dick looked up from his computer to find the head of building security standing in the doorway. He grinned back. "It's way too easy to make coding errors when you're half-asleep," he said. "I'd like to get it right the first time. I won't," he admitted, still smiling. "Not with the amount of coding involved, anyway. But at least I'll be alert enough to fix whatever's wrong on the first try."

"I wrote some of the original programs myself," Sal said, nodding. "I know what you mean. Let me know if what you're trying to do gets blocked by one of our existing security measures before you try a work-around." For a moment, his florid face looked almost boyish. "I'd really like to watch how you handle the interface."

Dick nodded. "That's probably a good idea, in case you ever need to update any of this when I'm not around."

"That reminds me," Sal said. "I've been going over your performance reviews and, after balancing those against what I've observed firsthand over the last little while," his expression turned serious, "I'd like to ask you to come work for me. Technically, of course," he added, "you already do, since Risk Management is one of the departments I oversee. However, I think you'll…" He laughed self-consciously. "Damn. The truth is that you'd do well in just about any department, but I'd like you in mine. You've been in risk management for over a year, now. It might be time for you to take stock and figure out where you want to be." He waited for Dick to nod before he continued. "If you're happy where you are, that's fine. On the other hand, if it's something you don't mind doing, it's a reason to get up in the morning and you can live with it, but you're not _on fire_ for it, then you're selling yourself short by settling and I'd advise you to try something different. Naturally," he smiled, "I'd like you to try security. I can use you. If you'd rather not," he sighed, "I understand, but it's good to move around every so often."

Dick had been smiling during Sal's appeal. All at once, though, he frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Sal… did Mr. Fox ask you to propose this move to me?"

Sal blinked. "No," he said, confusion plain on his face, "why?"

"No reason." For a moment, he'd suspected that Lucius was trying to surreptitiously prepare him to take over the company one day. If that was Lucius' plan, it would made sense to see to it that Dick would move from department to department, staying long enough to understand the inner workings of each area and then moving on. However, either Sal was giving an Academy Award-caliber performance at the moment, or Lucius had nothing to do with the offer.

"If you'd like to take some time to think it over…"

Dick shook his head. "No. No, that's fine. I accept."

Sal smiled broadly. "Great! Okay, it'll take a couple of days to get the paperwork processed and make it official, but for now, let me be the first to welcome you to building security."

* * *

Paxton reviewed the list of names, nodding slightly. "You're thorough," he said. "I appreciate that."

Powers smiled. "Most of the information is public record. For a man with something to hide, Bruce Wayne let a lot of nosy people into his life. Vesper Fairchild and Summer Gleason were just the tip of the iceberg."

Paxton opened a drawer in his mahogany desk and pulled out a round black tin with a gold label. "I gave up pipes years ago," he chuckled, "but I'll never tire of the smell of fine tobacco. Here," he passed the tin to Powers. "Have a sniff."

Powers inhaled. His eyes grew wide. He closed them and took another slow breath. Then he nodded and passed the tin back.

"Nothing quite like the good stuff, is there?" Paxton asked indulgently. "Now, about this idea… are you sure it's going to work? After all, Wayne's been fairly open to the media lately."

"No," Powers shook his head. "Wayne's gracefully bowed to the inevitable and given one interview to an old girlfriend at a time and place of his choosing. He probably gave her a list of approved questions ahead of time."

"She did have a few tough ones for him."

Powers snorted. "About what? Arkham? Gun handling? Wayne was expecting those. He probably hired a speechwriter to prepare his lines for him. Even if he didn't, he knew that kind of stuff was going to be on the agenda. But if we catch him off-guard, trap him in the same room with other people who want answers—and not just about Arkham and his new career move—I wonder how long it'll be before that violent "Bat-temper" he's so sure is behind him charges to the fore."

"And if you're wrong?"

Powers shrugged. "Then Wayne proves that he can keep his cool in public. That's not something worthy of praise; it's normal social behavior. It won't influence the outcome of any future psychiatric assessments we might want to insist Wayne undergo to prove his fitness to resume his position on the board. Furthermore, even if Wayne graciously replies to every question asked of him at that gala, it's going to get other people talking. Wondering. Speculating. Doubting." He smiled. "And then, it's just a matter of time until they'll start blogging. They'll petition. They'll set up FaceSpace pages demanding more answers." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Les. I don't have to tell you about the power of social media. Considering…"

"No," Paxton said sourly. "No, you don't." He looked down as he shut the tobacco tin back in his desk. When he looked up again, he was smiling. "I like it. Minimal risk to us, good potential to block further initiatives from Wayne… Yes, this has possibilities indeed…"

* * *

"When would you consider deadly force to be necessary?" It was another lieutenant speaking now. His voice had a slight nasal quality to it that grated on Bruce almost as much as the question.

He forced himself to suppress his instinctive "never," and tried to keep his face and voice impassive. _It was in the study materials. You know this one._ "Deadly force is authorized," he stated, "when an officer can be said to have a reasonable belief that the suspect poses an imminent threat of death to either said officer or another individual."

The lieutenant smiled. "Yes, that's the correct response in the policy manual, Cadet. But I asked _you_. When would _you_ consider it appropriate to use deadly force?"

"I…" Bruce stopped. _Just answer the question. Tell him that you agree with the policy as outlined in the materials._

"Cadet Wayne?"

_But I don't agree. There's always another way. A better way._

"Cadet Wayne, do you need me to repeat the question?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "I would say, when the suspect poses an imminent threat of death to myself or another, and when there is no other recourse."

The lieutenant steepled his hands, pointing his fingers upward rather than outward. "Perhaps an example would be helpful, Cadet."

There was no further doubt in Bruce's mind. The lieutenant was _trying_ to get under his skin. Annoyingly, it was working. _Keep it under control, Bruce,_ he told himself. _You've come this far without letting your temper get the better of you. Just get through this panel and you can work out your frustrations with Craigie on the parade grounds._ He frowned, thinking. "I'm sorry," he admitted. "Nothing's springing to mind."

"Use your imagination, Cadet. Surely, you can conceive of a time when you might need to fire a gun."

Bruce kept his voice steady through sheer force of will. "Sir, I can conceive of times when I would be authorized to use deadly force," he replied. "However, as you're aware, I've never carried a gun before and I've learned to function without needing to resort to one."

The lieutenant peered down his nose at Bruce. "You've reviewed the module dealing with police brutality, I hope?"

_Yes, I can see how it's **so** much better to shoot a suspect, rather than break his wrist._ "I have." He didn't roll his eyes. He was actually somewhat proud of that.

The lieutenant sniffed and made a notation on the page before him. "Would you use deadly force against a fleeing suspect?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "The action would be permitted, but if I were able to carry batarangs, those would be my preference."

The lieutenant frowned. "Let us say, Cadet, that the fleeing suspect was a known murderer, and that by allowing him the possibility of escape, you would be jeopardizing numerous civilians."

Bruce tilted his head, feigning puzzlement. "I'm… sorry, sir. I'm frankly unsure how we got from a preference for using batarangs to allowing a suspect the possibility of escape."

He heard a muffled laugh and turned automatically in the direction from which it had originated. One of the other panel members was deliberately avoiding his gaze, but could not conceal the slight shaking of his shoulders.

The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Are you still with us, Cadet?"

Bruce snapped his eyes back. "Yes, sir."

The questioning continued.

* * *

The long blast of a metal pea whistle startled Bruce out of his ruminations, as he slowed his pace slightly to round the curve of the track. "Walk down, Cadet," Craigie ordered. "Grab a drink, and hit the showers. I expect you back on parade grounds in exactly 45 minutes."

Bruce blinked. True, he'd just completed his 60th lap around the eighth-of-a-mile track, but, although he had worked up a decent sweat, he knew that he was still good for at least a dozen more circuits. He hadn't been running at top speed, since Craigie had directed him to "run till you drop or I tell you to stop!" He checked his watch. He'd been at this for slightly over an hour—far less time than he'd expected.

Obediently, he slowed to a walk, working in some neck and shoulder stretches as he did. Craigie watched for a moment, before he turned around and headed off in the direction of the administration building. Bruce continued his cool down routine, even as he wondered why he'd need to report back here after he'd showered.

When he reappeared some forty minutes later, it was to find a different officer waiting for him. "Cadet Wayne?"

He barely waited for Bruce's acknowledgement, before he continued. "Sergeant Farnham. I was just going over your written firearms test before coming out here. I don't see many perfect scores." He held out his hand. "Nice work, Cadet."

Bruce gave a surprised smile as he shook the officer's hand automatically. "Thank you, sir."

But Farnham wasn't done. "Let's see if you can continue to impress me… in the training simulator."

The color drained from his face as his heart began to pound as it hadn't when he'd been hitting the track. "Simulator," he repeated, swallowing hard. "Yes, sir."

"Come on, Batman," Farnham said heartily. "I can't wait to see this!


	18. 17. All the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce continues his Academy assessment, while Tim and Cass have a deadly assassin to face!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta. Thanks to Aiyokusama for fight scene review. "You're Gonna Be" written by Danny Orton and Dennis Matkowski. Recorded by Reba McEntire on her #1's album (MCA 2005).
> 
> A/N: GED testing information adapted from Ocean County College schedule for Spring/Summer 2013. Penal code statute reference: New Jersey Code of Criminal Justice.
> 
> A/N: I'd like to point out that my police services beta has been absent for a few weeks, due to RL issues. I've been working with her on the relevant scenes, but I'm posting without her final review. Any errors here are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Warning: Animal death

_Anything worth doin' is with doin' all the way_

_Just know you'll have to live with all the choices that you make_

_So make sure you're always givin' way more than you're takin'…_

— _Danny Orton and Dennis Matkowski, "You're Gonna Be"_

_  
_

**Chapter 17: All the Way**

Bruce held the pistol out before him and tried to bring it to bear on the youth facing him. The teen—Bruce pegged him at no more than seventeen—a skinny, gangly kid in jeans and an oversized basketball jersey grinned and pointed his Glock directly at him.

"Sir," Bruce said, his voice firm and authoritative, in direct contrast to his sweating hands, "Drop your weapon, or I _will_ fire."

Still smiling broadly, the youth took a step forward. Bruce knew what he had to do next, but even so, the muzzle of his gun dipped, as he aimed for a spot in front of the kid's feet. There was a loud bang. Then the simulator screen went dark and the room brightened as the lighting returned to normal. Bruce set the mock handgun back on its stand and lowered his head as the instructor stormed up.

"I hope your will is up to date," Farnham snapped. "Because if that punk had been breathing, you wouldn't be. What's with you? I _know_ you don't think this is a game, so what gives? You've spent more time out on those streets than half the officers on the force; you know damned well those mooks don't play pat-a-cake! If one of them pulls a weapon on you—if you even _think_ they're reaching for one—you fire. At _them_ , not the ground in front of them. The last I looked, _it_ was unarmed!"

Bruce endured the tongue-lashing silently, just as he had the other five times. He loathed guns, but he also loathed failure, and right at this moment, he knew that he was failing badly. He also knew that his written test score had made a positive impression on the firearms instructor. His simulator scores had eradicated that by now. He waited until Farnham was done. Then he squared his shoulders and took up his position before the screen again.

"Forget that," Farnham snapped. "You're done for the day."

"Sir?"

"Cadet," Farnham sighed, "the purpose of this exercise was to see if you could already pass Firearms Handling without taking the regular course. I've seen enough to pass my verdict on that one." He paused a beat. "In case it's somehow unclear to you, I look forward to seeing you in class when the semester starts next week." The simulator door opened automatically as he approached, and he gestured to Bruce to precede him out. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

Bruce walked back to his car miserably, jamming his still-sweaty hands into his jacket pockets.

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham went over Cass's latest essay with his usual frowns and intermittent grunts, his pen poised like a stiletto, ready to stab downward at the slightest provocation.

Cass tried to work on the civics review sheets, but flinched involuntarily each time that she saw the pen descend and scratch another mark on her page. She fought not to watch. Finally, she heard the scrape of his chair moving backward, as he rose and walked over to her seat. "You should review your semi-colons," he said, the rasp that had once overshadowed his voice now audibly diminished. "You have a tendency to confuse them with commas and periods." He sniffed. "A weakness that is sadly shared by an ever-increasing number of pupils. Are you familiar with the word 'homonym'?"

Cass nodded. Even though she'd never encountered the word before, its definition surfaced the instant Jeremiah uttered it. "Words that sound the same, but meaning and… um… um… spelling different." Her face fell. "I did those?"

Jeremiah's expression softened for a moment. "If it's any comfort to you," he answered, "the errors that you are making now are scarcely uncommon."

"But still… errors."

Jeremiah sniffed. "Please, don't tell me that you're losing hope, just when you're starting to show real improvement."

Cass blinked.

Jeremiah set the pages down before her, covering the practice sheet. "This," his pen jabbed down at her first paragraph, "is a clear thesis statement. It appears in your opening paragraph and," he pushed aside the top sheet, "in your conclusion. You bring two supports for your argument and, while I think that you're capable of going into greater detail and further depth, this would have earned you a passing mark, had you submitted it for your actual examination." He frowned at her. "When do you plan to take the examination?" he asked. "I don't believe you ever told me."

"No," Cass admitted. "I… don't… When I decided, I… I didn't know how much time to prepare. So…"

"So." Jeremiah nodded sagely. "I took the liberty of doing some checking for you. Gotham County College offers GED testing twice monthly. The examinations are typically administered over two days, usually Friday and Saturday, with a mandatory orientation session the Wednesday prior. I believe that I saw one or two instances where the entire battery of tests is administered on one day. Were I you, I would opt not to torment myself to that degree." He cleared his throat. "The end of February is fast approaching." This time, his smile held none of its usual cynicism. "I would think… perhaps, six months from now. You are hoping to enter college?" he asked.

Cass hesitated. "Maybe?"

"Well," Jeremiah harrumphed, "there's time yet for you to decide. However, you should be aware that the priority deadline for applications for the fall semester is usually in February. To that end, I would suggest taking your test no later than September or October. That will ensure that you obtain your results in plenty of time." He nodded slowly. "You should be ready by then." As Cass began to smile, Jeremiah continued. "The testing center usually requires at least 60 days notice for disability accommodation. You need to determine what paperwork you'll need to provide to the testing center and ensure that they receive everything by the beginning of May. That should accommodate the bureaucracy," he sniffed, "and other petty annoyances."

She remembered something that Barbara had said once. "Don't annoyances… build character?"

"Young woman," Jeremiah responded tartly, "while you may be a work in progress, I doubt your character requires quite as much additional construction as you seem to imply." Despite his harsh tone, he couldn't quite hide the twitch of his lips.

Cass grinned.

* * *

Instead of opening the main gate and driving up to the garage, Bruce took the BMW in through the Cave access. One advantage to Dick's having moved most of the Batmobiles to the satellite caves was that Bruce didn't have to worry about a parking spot. He pulled into an empty bay, parked, and emerged from the vehicle at a brisk trot, dropping his coat on the floor behind him and shedding his jacket and shirt, as he made his way to the training area of the cave.

He started with the speed bag, sending a flurry of short, powerful jabs to the belly of the bag. When his arms began to tire, he turned to the muay thai heavy bag, aiming kicks strong enough to shatter bone, had he been directing them at live opponents. He had switched back to his fists and was hammering away at the heavy bag when he realized that he wasn't alone.

"I take it things did not go well," Selina said softly when Bruce whirled to face her.

Bruce sighed. "Things went… as expected," he admitted. "I just…"

Selina took a careful step closer. "The firearms training," she prompted.

"The firearms training." Bruce nodded. "I scored a perfect one hundred on the written test. And a perfect zero on the practical. And probably not much higher on the panel."

"Well," Selina said gamely, "you did score perfect on two out of three."

"Not… funny."

She nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. Wait." She frowned. "Should I be sorry? I mean, did you want to pass?"

Bruce made a face. "Gun handling? Not really," he admitted. "Only… I didn't want to fail either." He sighed. "Not a second time."

Selina's jaw lowered slightly. "A second…?"

Bruce hesitated for a moment, considering. Then he removed his boxing gloves and undershirt, draped a towel over his shoulders, and took a bottle of water out of the supply locker. He took a long swig as he walked back to Selina.

"I don't think I was much older than Tim," he began. "And you need to understand… at that time, I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to do with my life. I'd spent over five years abroad, learning, training, studying; I… I thought that joining the FBI might be the answer. It _was_ the answer to one question: could I create an alter ego so perfect that it would stand up to government scrutiny?" A brief smile crossed his face. "I did. In fact, years later," he coughed, "I hacked the FBI databases to make certain that I really _had_ fooled them, and they hadn't merely allowed me to think they had, while they tried to determine my true objectives. I passed every test with flying colors," he continued, "…except gun handling."

"Oh."

Bruce nodded. "That was the major reason I never considered joining the police either. Until now. Except that now…"

"Now you have to."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't _have_ to. I didn't have GCPD sanction when I started. I can keep a low profile. Except," he shook his head, "hating guns is one thing. Fearing them is something else. I need to work through this, or it'll just be a matter of time before it trips me up on patrol. I can't afford to fear something that..." he sighed. "Let's be honest, Selina. The costumed contingent is a minority—albeit a highly dangerous one. Even taking them into consideration, how many patrols have you undertaken where you _didn't_ encounter a single adversary with a gun?"

She nodded. "I know. Even if the costumes themselves might not be carrying, you have to consider the flunkies. So that means…"

Bruce closed his eyes. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

Selina slid her hand under the sweaty towel and rested it on his bare back. "I can't _make_ you do anything, Bruce," she replied. "Least of all, face facts. Even when those facts indicate that…"

Bruce sighed. "…that I have to pass gun handling." He reached up and squeezed her hand. "Like it or not, I have to face this—really face this—or else… I have to acknowledge that my time in the cowl is… well and truly over." He slumped for a moment. Then, Selina felt his muscles tense as he straightened. "I don't think I'm ready to do that," he said, a new resolve coming into his voice. He sighed again, but this time, it wasn't coming from hopelessness, but from acceptance. "I don't honestly know how I'm going to pass this class, beat that simulator… but I know I have to."

Selina grinned and stepped in front of him, ready to pull him into a hug. All at once, her nose wrinkled. "Um… Bruce? You know what else you have to do if you want me to hang around?" Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Shower!"

* * *

On the rooftop of a Neo-Gothic-style office building overlooking the warehouse district, two masked vigilantes stood watching the waterfront. "So…" Batgirl's voice was dubious, "we look for people with… hats?"

Harrier sighed and leaned against the stone gargoyle. "I know, I know. Leaf in the forest time. Half the city's got to be wearing some sort of head covering, and not because Hatter's controlling them; because it's Gotham in February and it's sleeting right now. Still, we—" He broke off suddenly. "On the other hand… Batgirl, 35 degrees east, straight down. Do you see who I see?"

From her perch atop a second rooftop gargoyle, Batgirl turned to face him. Harrier imagined that she was frowning under the full face mask. "The… woman? Underdressed but…" She saw it. "Wait. She's… sluggish but, the way she moves… I've seen before…" Her voice hardened. "Cheshire?"

"Yup." His serious expression belied the lightness of his tone. "My guess is that if we get rid of her head scarf, she'll lose that sluggishness. Only…"

Batgirl waited. "Well?"

"Cheshire's an assassin," Harrier pointed out with a sigh. "Hatter might be controlling her because he's using her to get to Bruce. The thing is, if we free her, there's a pretty good chance that she'll _still_ be after Bruce—right after she takes care of Hatter."

Batgirl groaned. "Means we have to save Hatter, too."

"I was hoping you wouldn't think of that part."

"Really?"

Harrier shook his head. "No. You're right. We need to free her, keep her away from Hatter, keep her away from Bruce, and not get killed in the process."

Batgirl nodded. "Okay. Now?"

Harrier considered. "Let me check something first. I'd hate to go to the trouble of bringing her in, only to find out that the cops have to release her." He turned on his comm-link. "Oracle, you there?"

Barbara's voice came through as clearly as though she were sitting next to them. "What's up?"

"Cheshire's in town. If we bring her in, are there any current outstanding warrants?"

Batgirl slid down from her gargoyle. "Harrier. She's… assassin. How can there not be—?"

Harrier waved her to silence. "Just call it a hunch."

An expletive seemed to explode in both their ears. "Sometimes," Oracle snarled, "I really wish I hadn't helped her so much in the early days."

"Cheshire?" Batgirl asked, confused.

"Waller," Tim stated, with only slightly less irritation than Oracle.

"Waller," Oracle confirmed. "Cheshire _was_ wanted in connection with over a dozen murders in six countries—and those were just the ones that the authorities could connect her to; she's probably responsible for a lot more. Eighteen months ago, she was caught in Louisiana and sent to Belle Reve to await trial. Less than a week later, she vanished. A year ago, so did the outstanding warrants. I mean, the electronic copies are still in the databases, but every single one of them has since been revoked."

"So she did a stint with the Suicide Squad," Harrier nodded.

"And now she's free."

"Great. Thanks, Oracle."

"Sorry I don't have better news." The link disconnected.

Harrier looked at Batgirl. "You got all that?"

Batgirl nodded. "Stinks."

"Yeah. So we can't really swoop down on her yet. What we _can_ do is follow her; I'm betting that she didn't come to Gotham to visit a sick friend. Maybe she'll lead us to Hatter, but since murder's a big part of her skill-set, I don't think we can risk letting her roam free in the hope that she does. As soon as we spot her doing something illegal—littering and jaywalking both count, by the way—we move."

"Yes."

* * *

They didn't have to wait long. Cheshire made her way swiftly along the warehouses, stopping at a narrow building that looked like an oversized guardhouse and bore a brass sign-plate that read 'Tweed Imports'.

Harrier tensed.

"You… aren't surprised." Batgirl remarked.

Harrier shook his head as the two watched her pick the front door lock and step inside. "The Tweeds… or, if you prefer, 'Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee' recently used one of Hatter's own mind control devices on him to force him to do their dirty work, _and_ set him up to take the blame for their crimes. He's using Cheshire for payback." He frowned at the roof with distaste. There was no chimney, no weathervane, not even a rain gutter to snag.

Wordlessly, Batgirl pointed to a windowsill on the third floor of the Tweeds' office, as a burglar alarm shattered the relative silence.

"May as well," Harrier nodded, "since Cheshire just tripped the alarm." He caught the sill with his grapnel and swung over, kicking in the glass of the second-floor window with armored boots. Batgirl followed a moment later. A scream from downstairs sent them racing for the staircase.

On the first level, they saw a terrified night watchman trying desperately to evade the assassin. On the floor, a large Rottweiler lay far too still, four bloody puncture wounds in its throat. Blood dripped from the long, pointed fingernails on Cheshire's right hand.

In a panic, the man dashed for a supply closet. Cheshire smiled lazily. Then she leaped onto the desk, and executed a series of flips to land directly before the closet door, blocking his path.

The watchman skidded to a stop as Cheshire extended both hands, her fingernails claw-like.

"NO!" Batgirl lunged for the man, tackling him out of the way, as Harrier tossed a bolo at Cheshire.

The assassin leaped up, seized hold of an exposed pipe, and swung to safety. Then she lunged for Harrier. He got his bo staff up just in time to block her charge. Although his costume left very little of his skin exposed, he wasn't sure he wanted to test its resilience against Cheshire's razor-sharp, poison-coated green fingernails—particularly when either the poison or the fingernails had been enough to kill a 120-pound dog in seconds. Despite himself, his heart began to pound. It hadn't been that many years ago that _he'd_ weighed 120 pounds!

Cheshire smiled. "You've trained under Lady Shiva. I recognize the style. Well. Having beaten the teacher once, the student should be no challenge."

Harrier ignored her taunt and quickly considered his options. The lenses and breathing filters in their cowls would protect him and Batgirl from his next countermove. It was too bad about the watchman, but at least, he'd recover... assuming they all lived so long. He lobbed the teargas grenade over Cheshire's head, noting that Batgirl was back on her feet and moving into position behind her.

Involuntarily, the assassin's eyes tracked its trajectory—and she missed Batgirl's fist until it was almost too late. She dodged, receiving a glancing blow to her cheek, instead of the roundhouse punch that Batgirl had intended. Then her hand shot out, reaching for Batgirl's throat. The younger woman barely had time to duck, grab her assailant's outstretched arm, and flip Cheshire over one shoulder.

Snarling, Cheshire grabbed Batgirl's sleeve with her free hand and jabbed at a critical pressure point on her upper arm.

A paralyzing pain made the cowled crime-fighter gasp in agony.

That was when Harrier lunged forward to snatch the green scarf off of the assassin's head.

For a split second, the assassin reeled, seemingly disoriented. Then her eyes went flat. Spewing a flood of angry words in what Harrier assumed was Vietnamese, Cheshire released Batgirl and lunged—whether for Harrier or for the doorway behind him was uncertain, for in that instant, the teargas grenade exploded.

A dense cloud of choking smoke enveloped them. Cheshire cried out as it stung her eyes. The cry broke off as the heel of Batgirl's good hand found the assassin's forehead and she slumped, unmoving, to the ground.

"Get guard," Batgirl directed. "I'll take Cheshire."

"You okay?" Harrier asked. "I saw her fingernails—"

Batgirl shook her head. "Fingers. Pressure point disabled my arm. But couldn't… um…" she cast about, searching for the right word, "pierce costume." Under her cowl, Harrier could hear a smile in her voice. It faded when she spoke again, as she gestured toward the dog's body. "Not… poisoned."

Harrier followed her gaze as it flickered to the dog's body.

"Yeah. Uh… can you cuff her? I mean, with only one good arm?"

Cass shook her head. "No need. I… also know pressure points."

Harrier would have bet money that her smile was back, as she reached for Cheshire.

* * *

"You doing okay, Boss-man?"

Bruce looked up at Oracle's face on the display for a long moment. Then, he pointedly directed his gaze back to his online study guide.

Barbara was undeterred. "I was just thinking," she mused. "What ever happened to that simulator you put me through when I was just starting out? The one with the life-sized plywood cut-outs of Joker and Two-Face and…"

Bruce glowered. "After Bane, Azrael used them to set up a shooting gallery in the Cave. Those figures are no longer useable. Or wanted. Moreover, in the activity to which you're referring, _we_ didn't fire back."

"I know," Barbara sighed. "But it's the same principle. Bruce, knowing how to kill doesn't stop you from choosing not to. You already know that."

"It's not…" He bit back the rest of his response angrily.

"Bruce?"

He shook his head. How could he explain it to her when it sounded so childish to his own mind? When he'd been framed for murder and held in Blackgate, the day-to-day treatment had steadily eroded the Bruce Wayne persona he'd built so painstakingly to safeguard his alter ego. The Bruce Wayne who might have paid a ransom to avoid being beaten by other inmates, or who would have taken the beating, rolling with punches and getting in a few "lucky" blows evaporated and Batman—costume or no costume, he'd been Batman that night—had sent his three attackers to the prison infirmary. At the time, he'd had no regrets. Later, he still hadn't had many. But he'd learned one thing: in dehumanizing conditions, it was only a matter of time before his inner demons emerged. To withstand Arkham, he'd had to lock himself down before he'd ever entered the institution. If Dick and Alex hadn't chipped away at that box, he might well still be inside it. The techniques used by the military—and by paramilitary organizations, like the GCPD—were designed to break down individuals and rebuild them as part of a team. But if they succeeded in breaking him down, what would be left?

Barbara would tell him that he was being silly. Alex would chalk it up to his fear of losing control. Dick would sympathize and point out that _he_ hadn't changed that much after his academy training. But Bruce couldn't do anything about his concerns. And if his darker side got loose with a gun… He didn't want to finish that thought.

"I have the situation in hand," he lied. "Thank you for your concern."

* * *

"We were looking in the wrong place," Barbara said disgustedly, when Dick walked through the front door. "I know what happened to Hush."

Dick gave her a quick embrace and kiss. "Oh?" He grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from the candy dish on the end table. "Hit me."

"Don't have too many of those," Barbara warned. "You'll spoil your supper."

"Hey," Dick grinned, "have I _ever_ passed up your cooking?"

"No," Barbara said, "but…" she shook her head. "On second thought, take another handful. After I tell you what's going on, you're probably going to want to head out. I can re-warm dinner later."

"That bad?"

Barbara nodded. "That bad. That security feed I was watching yesterday? The one where Hush just disappeared? It was recorded a couple of days earlier and deliberately substituted for a live feed. Hush had to know we'd be keeping tabs. He's been a couple of steps ahead of us from the start."

Dick grabbed another handful of nuts. "How did he make the switch?"

"Well," Barbara tried to sound flippant, but failed, "I have good news and bad news."

"How good is the good news?"

"Pretty bad."

"I figured," Dick said with a wry smile. "Okay. I can take it."

"Tim and Cass nailed Cheshire last night. There was a mind control chip under her head-scarf. The guy who made an attempt on Bruce had a similar chip under his cap. The guards at Blackgate also wear caps as part of their standard uniform. Jervis Tetch's last known location was Blackgate, and he and Elliot seem to have left around the same time."

Dick winced. "Okay. What's the good news?"

Barbara looked away. "That _was_ the good news. We know who, how, and probably, why." She let out a long sigh that sounded almost like a laugh. "I feel like I'm coaching Cass on report writing again."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, sorry. The good news is that we have a pretty good idea of how Hush got out and who he's working with. The bad news is, we don't know where they're holed up or what they're planning next."

Dick nodded. "What are the Titans up to?"

"They're spread a bit thin right now," Barbara replied. "At least they've pretty much gone back to their hometowns for a few days. You want them involved?"

"Not yet," Dick answered. "But you know the signs. If it looks like we're being run too ragged, don't ask me if I want them helping out. Tell me when you've brought them in."

He leaned down to give her another kiss. "I'll take a spin around the city and see what I can find out. I'll try not to make a late night of it."

"Call when you're heading back," Barbara smiled. "I'll put supper back in for you."

* * *

Bruce looked at the silhouette target for a long time before he pressed the button to send it to the end of the shooting range. He could do this. He had to do it. He hesitated only a moment before loading the Beretta and donning a pair of ear muffs. The important thing, he knew, was to neutralize his opponents. He'd been doing that for years—using batarangs, martial arts, and other non-lethal methods. Just because a gun _could_ kill didn't mean it had to. He sighted the target, aimed for the right arm and pulled the trigger. The bullet barely clipped the edge of the cardstock. He scowled and adjusted his aim.

This time, the bullet pierced the bottom-most ring of the bulls-eye, almost dead center. Despite himself, Bruce shuddered. Had he hit a live target in that spot, the wound would almost definitely be fatal—but it wouldn't be fast.

It took nearly all the will-power he possessed to force himself to unload the gun and put the remaining rounds away instead of running out of the range area and leaving as much distance between himself and the weapon as possible.

* * *

Derek Powers studied the gala seating chart with a practiced eye. Then he picked up the telephone and called the event coordinator. "Michelle? Derek Powers. I'm sorry to bother you," he said smoothly, coaxing the faintest note of uncertainty into his tone. "I know it's not really my place to say anything, but I was looking over the plans for the gala. I notice that you have Mr. Wayne seated by the door of the banquet hall."

He nodded as Michelle replied. "I understand if he asked for that, but have you thought about how it might look? Our president emeritus _and_ our current CEO shunted off to one side. Now Mr. Fox is a modest man and Mr. Wayne might be trying to keep a low profile, but have you considered how the press might spin it? 'Bruce Wayne may have begun the foundation that bears his name,'" he said, pushing his voice to a slightly higher register, "'but if the gala seating arrangements are anything to go by, it looks like today's administration wants to help him to the exit.'" He smiled at the coordinator's horrified gasp. "Yes, a central table would be much better for all concerned," he agreed. "Thanks, I was hoping you'd see it my way. After all," he smiled, "if Mr. Wayne wants to boost his public image, I think it's important that we support his endeavors and ensure that he's seen by the greatest possible number of people." He hung up the phone and added under his breath, "…At all times."

* * *

"Thanks for stopping by, Dick," Jim said, moving away from the cottage door to allow him entry. "You're not going to be late for work?"

"Flexible hours, remember?" Dick grinned. "Besides, they have me doing coding right now. I'm not much good with that until the second cup of peppermint tea kicks in. What's up?"

Jim chuckled. "'Who' might be a better question. I would've thought that Bruce might've overslept at least once by now, but he's been off by 6:30 every morning since the evaluations started." His expression turned serious. "You know the fun part really starts when he starts taking classes. Have you told him what to expect?"

Dick shook his head. "No. But thanks for the reminder." He sank down onto the sofa and leaned back.

"Don't thank me so fast." Jim's frown deepened. "And don't volunteer anything unless he asks. Not vents," he added, taking the adjacent armchair. "Asks."

Dick frowned. "I thought we were going to be supportive."

"Oh, we are," Jim said. "But you have to understand—this isn't about passing the test; it's about making the grade."

"I'm not sure I do," Dick frowned. "Understand what you're saying, I mean."

Jim smiled. "Okay. Maury Chiarello and I go back a ways. After he interviewed me about Bruce, we went for coffee, did some catching up… Anyway," he said, sitting up straighter as the nostalgic note faded from his voice, "I asked him about something Bruce had mentioned to me. Specifically, that Bruce offered Wonder Woman's lasso as a more reliable means of getting at the truth than the usual polygraph. Maury turned it down. I was curious about why. I mean… I had my suspicions, but I wanted to hear him out."

Dick nodded. "Okay. And?"

Jim smiled. "Maury told me that he wasn't interested in knowing the actual truth. He was interested in knowing whether Bruce was going to tell it—freely and without coercion. The interview was about _character_ , and you don't find out if someone is going to be truthful about uncomfortable subjects by rendering them incapable of lying. For that reason, he preferred the polygraph and his own judgment." He leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on his knee. "Cop culture isn't something that Bruce needs to learn so he can spit back answers on an exam and forget once he's in the field. It's something he needs to absorb. We can, in broad terms, point out that the Department is a brotherhood…" He frowned. "Is it still okay to use that term or did they change it to siblinghood or something?"

"Beats me," Dick admitted. "But I hear you. It's not one test; it's a constant."

"Exactly. And I don't think we're doing him any favors by trying to explain what's involved without his going through it, any more than _you_ could probably teach someone to execute one of those flips using words only; no demonstration, no video links, no photos, no diagrams, nothing but text or the spoken word."

Dick nodded. "I remember Babs telling me that someone tried an experiment like that; not with gymnastics—with step-by-step instructions on how to tie your shoes. And without images? Just by following the written instructions? _Nobody_ got it right."

Jim smiled. "Same thing. Now, that doesn't mean we throw Bruce to the wolves. He comes to us to vent? He asks us for advice? We're still his sounding board. We can still make suggestions. I guess it's more… let him face his own challenges. A lot of instructors have specific styles and methodologies. Our trying to prepare Bruce in advance is likely to do one of two things: have the instructors see him as a know-it-all and make it their mission to take him down a peg or two—and there are enough of them out there already who are planning as much, I'll bet, without making it worse, _or_ messing him up more—because what we think the instructors are looking for might not be what they're really looking for. Or… ever have a teacher who cared less about whether you got the answer right than whether you followed the process they outlined?"

Dick let out a short laugh. "Only every math teacher I ever had from grade three on." He sighed. "No shortcuts. Got it." He hesitated. "Do you really think he can do this?"

Jim nodded. "If his desire to get back in the cowl is greater than his aversion to working and playing well with others. What do you think?"

"I…" Dick shook his head. "I wish I knew."

* * *

**75\. Which of the following does NOT apply to a "crime," according to the constitution of this state, as outlined in the State Penal Code?**

**a. Authorized monetary fine in excess of $50,000.00.**

**b. Authorized sentence of imprisonment in excess of six months.**

**c. Designated as being of the first, second, third, or forth degree.**

**d. All of the above are correct.**

Bruce frowned. It was either "a" or "d," but he couldn't remember which. He put a dot next to the question and moved on. Ten minutes later, he went back to it. Five minutes after that, he was still drawing a blank.

"Three more minutes," the proctor called.

Bruce scowled. Harvey would have flipped a coin by now. No, Harvey probably had the penal code memorized in pre-law. With a sigh, he made his guess and rose to hand in his paper.

This was it. Six days. Twenty-two subjects—including the physical fitness components. And now it was all over but the waiting.


	19. 18. Broken Wide Open, Cut to the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce comes home from a hard day's testing to an unpleasant surprise. Selina has a shock when she goes back to her apartment. And Cass gets some unexpected results when she takes a GED practice test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for technical advice. "Learning the World" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter. From her Ashes and Roses album (Zoё, 2012).

_In the late night kitchen light it sits in a chair  
Watching you pretend that it's not really there, but it is._

_So it is and you ask_   
_"Are you predator or friend? The future or the past?"_

_It hands you your overcoat and opens the door._   
_You are learning the world again just as before,_   
_But the first time was childhood and now you are grown,_   
_Broken wide open, cut to the bone._

_And all that you used to know is of no use at all…_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, Learning the World  
_

**Chapter 18 — Broken Wide Open, Cut to the Bone**

As Bruce pushed open the front door to the manor, high-pitched screams assaulted his eardrums. It took only a split-second to ascertain that the source of the shrieks was more angry than injured and Bruce did his best to push the day's events out of his mind. It wasn't Helena's fault that today had marked the culmination of a week of testing and assessment, not to mention subtle digs and pointed barbs. The latter would barely have fazed him, had the former not been weighing on him. It wasn't Helena's fault that she wouldn't celebrate her second birthday for another six weeks, but she was precocious enough to have already entered the "terrible twos". If anything, Bruce thought wryly, some of the blame for that had to devolve on himself and Selina, since they'd both done what they could to stimulate her development.

_So this was the thanks they got,_ Bruce thought ironically and gave a mental sigh. Maybe this meant she'd enter the "terrific threes" ahead of schedule, too. He followed his daughter's wails upstairs.

* * *

He entered the nursery and stopped. Selina was trying unsuccessfully to get Helena's arms into her jacket sleeves. Helena was struggling and protesting loudly. The thing that horrified him though, was seeing the two canvas suitcases just inside the nursery door.

Bruce shook his head in disbelief. "Your timing could be better," he managed.

Selina grinned. "Yours, on the other hand, is impeccable."

She gave Helena a gentle shove. "Look!" she exclaimed. "Daddy's home."

Helena sniffled. Her face was red, her nose was running, and her dark curls were plastered against her forehead. She practically flew at Bruce, wrapping chubby arms around his left pants-leg and burying her face in the wool fabric with a muffled "Daddy!"

Bruce bent down and rested a hand on the back of her head. "I thought things were going well," he said, frowning.

"Uh huh," Selina nodded. "But with Joker behind bars, I figured it was about time to head back and—"

"Without…" Bruce stopped. _You would have left_ w _ithout saying goodbye. I would have come home to another note._ He straightened up and regarded Selina with an angry glare.

Selina nodded. "Well, now that you're back, I can leave Helena with you. I just didn't want to impose on Jim and I wasn't sure if getting a sitter would be wise, all things considered." She sighed. "I _guess_ it could have waited for morning, but I just felt like I needed to get out for a bit and I didn't know when you'd be home." She smiled apologetically. "Still, it's a bit past her bedtime and she didn't nap nearly long enough, so…"

Bruce nodded and tried to stem his rising anger. "So you're leaving her here again."

"I think that's wisest," Selina nodded. She tilted her head quizzically. "Bruce? Is something wrong?"

"Is something…" Bruce smiled bitterly. "Why, no, Selina. What could _possibly_ be wrong? Here." He bent down again. "Let me help you get your bags to the car."

Selina blinked. "You don't have to do that, Bruce. I've got th—."

"No," Bruce cut her off with icy precision. "No, they look heavy. I wouldn't want you to have to stay here one minute longer than you wish." He grabbed one of the bags and hefted it—or at least, he tried to. The bag came up easily— _too_ easily. He staggered slightly for a moment, but managed to stabilize. Helena's grip on his leg wasn't helping matters. His eyebrows shot up. "It's… empty," he said in confusion.

Selina nodded. "I was going back to my old place to pick up a few things and move them here. That is… I mean… you _did_ want us to stick around, right?"

Bruce blinked. "Stick around?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

"Um," she hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "I thought… well, after Joker, when you didn't say anything about us wearing out our welcome, I thought everything was good. But if we're making you feel crowded and you were just trying to find a polite way to say so, I under—"

Bruce closed the distance between them—not as easily as he'd expected, with a twenty-five pound weight clasped around his shin—and rested his hands on her shoulders. "No," he said, cutting her off. "You aren't."

Selina exhaled. "Then what…?" Realization hit. "You thought I was walking out again."

"I saw the suitcases," Bruce said, nodding. "I jumped—"

Selina brought her fingers to his lips, cutting off his sentence. "Yeah, you did. But I guess it did sort of look like… I'm sorry. I'd thought we'd be gone and back before you walked in. I wasn't thinking of how it might look… the suitcases by the door and all."

Bruce nodded and pulled her closer. She wrapped her arms around him and held on.

"Oh, by the way," she turned her face up to him with an impish smile, "you wouldn't happen to have a spare car I could borrow?"

* * *

After Selina left, Bruce settled Helena on the floor and sank gratefully onto the overstuffed sofa that Selina had insisted on for the nursery. "Unless you _want_ to try squeezing into something more Helena's size," she'd added at the time. After the day he'd had, relaxing in something more his size was a relief. He'd spent enough time trying to mold himself into a shape he didn't quite feel he fit. He leaned back and closed his eyes as Helena occupied herself with wooden jigsaw puzzles. After a few minutes, he felt a tug on his pants-leg. "Daddy?"

He opened his eyes slowly and smiled down at his daughter. "Hi, Helena."

Helena pulled on his leg again, trying unsuccessfully to climb. "Wanna go up!" she announced.

Bruce's lips twitched. There was plenty of room on the sofa and, since its cushions were deep, Helena would likely find it easier to scramble up that way. He patted the cushion next to him. "Try here."

Helena shook her head emphatically. "Wanna go up HERE!" she said, tapping his right knee.

Bruce winced. She'd slapped it right on the pressure point. Yesterday, in his unarmed combat examination, his opponent had managed to score a decent kick to precisely that spot. Without conscious application of the proper pain control technique, the slightest touch—even Helena's relatively light one—was agony.

Helena sat still for nearly a full thirty seconds. Then she tried to crawl into Bruce's lap again—mercifully attempting to scale his other leg this time.

_You were right, Clark_ , Bruce thought to himself. _Everyone does have a Kryptonite and I think I've found mine: toddlers with manga eyes._ He pushed her away gently. "Daddy's tired, Helena. Daddy…" He reached over, took her in his arms, and slowly stretched out on the sofa. "Daddy's going to take a nap now." He slid her to the floor. "So play quietly, okay?"

Helena studied him for a moment. "'Kay."

It was maybe another five minutes before Bruce felt the cushions sag and tiny finger tips brushing against his outstretched arm. "'Lena nap too," she announced, scrabbling the rest of the way up. Well, it sounded more like 'Yina,' than 'Lena,' but Bruce understood her.

_Oh no._ "But…" Helena was already worming her way under his other arm. Bruce sighed. At least, she wasn't trying to claim any more space than what was available. He closed his eyes again, not thinking that he'd actually be able to sleep with his daughter more-or-less behind him, but exhaustion and deep cushions soon had him drifting off...

…The telephone rang.

Bruce opened his eyes blearily and tried to get up to answer it. That was the point that he realized that he was hopelessly entangled in sleeping toddler. Her arms and legs seemed to have molded themselves perfectly along the contours of his body. He didn't think he could move a fraction of an inch without waking her. And right now, he definitely did _not_ want to wake her.

The phone rang again.

Bruce closed his eyes and did his best to tune it out.

* * *

"Next time," Barbara said, trying not to sound annoyed, "it would be a good idea to warn me that you're stopping by — especially if you're not going to use the same window everyone else does. I'd have more time to disable my home office security."

Selina sniffed. "Please. The day I can't get past a burglar alarm is the day I—" She leaped to one side as a webbed fabric strip launched toward her, propelled from a concealed slot in the wall. "—mothball the cat suit for good," she continued, lashing her whip at a series of small projectile darts that flew at her from the opposite direction.

"It's more than just a burglar alarm," Barbara pointed out. The weighted net dropped next. Selina barely rolled to safety in time.

"Sheesh. With allies like you, who needs enemies?"

"Like I said," Barbara repeated, "next time, tell me when you're planning to drop in."

Her claws took care of the ninja throwing stars. "What's next?" she demanded. "And shouldn't you have deactivated this stuff already?"

Barbara sighed. "It takes a few seconds to power down. Meanwhile, enjoy the workout." Almost as soon as she'd finished speaking, the projectiles stopped flying. "...Or not," she finished lamely.

Selina stalked forward. "I need you to run analysis on this," she snapped, laying a clear plastic zip-lock bag on the work desk.

Barbara picked up the bag. "White threads... loosely woven," she said. "What's up?"

Selina hesitated. "I..." finally she let out a long breath. "Oh, the hell with it. You're the expert here. I went back to my place to get a few things and found out that someone else had been there. It wasn't anything really obvious just... okay. You're going to think this is weird, but...I have a pretty good idea of how long it takes for a certain amount of dust to accumulate. I know how long it's been since I was last home and I know how much should have been there." She took another breath. "There was more."

Barbara frowned. "What are you thinking?"

Selina brought out another zip-lock. This one contained a good amount of something that looked like dryer lint. Mixed into it were various fibres, hairs, and other material not identifiable at first glance. "I'm thinking that if you analyzed this, you'd find the kind of stuff you'd expect if you emptied a vacuum cleaner bag — which is what I suspect someone did. All over my furniture. To hide the fact that they'd been there, moving things around, looking for — I don't know what. I mean, I haven't been there for almost two months —not since the smallpox scare." She lowered her voice. "Barbara, this wasn't a run-of-the-mill B and E. First, I don't keep much worth stealing lying around, and what I did have there was untouched. Second, run-of-the-mill burglars don't spend so much time covering their tracks. They wear gloves so they don't leave prints, fine. Thanks to the stuff they see on TV, maybe they're more careful not to leave any stray hairs behind. But emptying a vacuum cleaner bag on the furniture? It's not mine, by the way. I don't have carpeting."

Barbara looked up sharply. "Smart. This gives us a direction to start looking."

"Yeah," Selina agreed. "Because right now, all I know is that someone broke in." She made a face. "Someone good. There's thorough… and then there's taking things to a whole new level. I want to know who did this. That's why I'm here."

"I see. Um... Selina, you know Bruce has a pretty well-equipped basement, right? I mean, for what you're asking... he could probably get it done a lot faster."

Selina shook her head. "You know how he gets when he thinks someone close to him is in danger. I don't know how to work most of that machinery, and if I ask him, he'll either try to push me away or lock me down." She lowered her eyes. "I don't want to have that fight with him. Can you take care of this? If you can't... I have other connections, though I can't deny that they might already be involved, whether because they helped engineer the break-in, or because they know who did and will be only too quick to warn them that I'm not fooled."

Barbara picked up the two bags gingerly. "I'll ask Dick to run the analysis from one of the satellite caves. You don't mind if he knows, right? He'll respect your privacy."

Selina nodded. "That's fine."

Barbara took a deep breath. "There are a couple of things that I think you need to be aware of. Bruce already knows some of it; I'm not sure what he's told you. Specifically, that Hush has put a contract out on Dick. We think that the bomb scare at PMWE was tied in. But the guy who tried to knife Bruce last week wasn't acting of his own free will. There's a pretty good chance that Jervis Tetch is involved..."

* * *

Sergeant Mears was a stocky young woman whom Bruce pegged immediately as a martial artist. It showed in her loose stride, in the way her body flowed when she walked—instead of bobbing up and down—and in the way her feet pointed straight ahead as she strode back to her desk after opening the office door to him.

"This won't take long, Cadet," she said, going around her desk and sitting down. Bruce remained standing. He was more resigned to the situation than he was nervous. He had a pretty good idea of how he'd done, but—as usual—he was more focused on the few areas where he knew he'd fallen short than on the many where he'd done well.

"This is an unofficial transcript," Mears explained. "Usually, grades aren't posted online until midway through the program. In your case, we have requested that they be uploaded sooner. That request is still pending. Therefore…" she reached into her desk drawer and removed a manila folder. "Peruse it at your leisure. I don't think there'll be any surprises. Questions?"

"No, Ma'am," Bruce said. He still wasn't used to all of this 'sir-ing' and 'ma'am-ing'. It grated on him; one more annoying reminder that he wasn't calling the shots anymore, but he'd been working on dealing with it. Sometimes, it even helped.

When Mears dismissed him, he walked nonchalantly back to his car. Although he glanced at the folder lying innocuously on the passenger seat next to him, he didn't open it until he was back in the cave.

Once there, he panned the sheet slowly. The cramming had paid off, he noted. State laws… search and seizure… crime scene management… They'd failed him in ethics, after all, he thought with a scowl. Seventy-five was a passing grade. He'd scored a 68. Disappointing, but not wholly unexpected. All at once, he stopped. It couldn't be. He'd done everything Craigie had demanded of him. How could…? He was about to call the academy and demand answers, but it occurred to him that doing so might be falling into exactly the sort of trap that the others had been warning him about: acting as though he was expecting greater concessions and allowances than Sawyer had already authorized. Best to talk to Jim first and see whether he felt Bruce should contest the grade. If nothing else, it would give him a chance to cool off.

* * *

"It's a good thing you built this house to withstand another quake," Jim said tartly as he answered the door. "The way you were pounding, I thought you were going to break it down."

Bruce colored slightly. "I'm sorry. I need you to look at something." He thrust the computer printout at him. Jim took it.

"Your grades?" He smoothed the sheet carefully and squinted at it. "Ah."

"An incomplete in Physical Conditioning," Bruce nearly growled.

"I see it." Jim handed him back the paper with a sympathetic smile. "If you think about it for a little while, you'll probably understand why." He frowned. "Then again, I keep forgetting that a lot of this is new to you. Maybe you won't. But I bet you anything Dick would."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Since he's been through the Academy before, you're probably right. Care to enlighten me?"

Jim shook his head, but he was smiling again. "Actually, it has more to do with one of his key strengths and one of your key weaknesses. I think you'll figure it out. And if not, I guess you'll find out next week."

Bruce exhaled slowly through his teeth. "Some people might believe," he gritted, "that you're being deliberately close-mouthed as some form of… of… turnabout for our past working relationship."

At another time, Commissioner James Gordon might have bristled at the remark. Now, he merely kept smiling. "There's an interesting theory," he answered.

Bruce glowered. "Frankly, I'd thought better of you."

"And Chiarello wondered how much grief you get from a guilty conscience..." Jim's smile grew practically vicious. Then it vanished, replaced by a more serious demeanor. "Physical conditioning isn't just about the individual," he said, relenting. "If it were, you'd have passed with flying colors. However, the police department is a team and physical exercise is one way of fostering a team mindset. Not to mention that there are parade drills, in which marching in step with the rest of the company is a major component." The smile was back. "Kind of hard to assess _that_ when you're the only one out on parade grounds."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. He considered for a moment and then nodded slowly, his anger dissipating as he sighed. "I suppose I should have expected that."

"Well, look at it as a chance to make some new acquaintances—and I'm not being facetious," he added. "You might end up working with them down the road, and when you do, it'll helpful to know who's good at what."

He gestured toward the transcript. "You got nailed on the ethics panel, didn't you?"

Bruce nodded.

"Idiots."

* * *

"How's it coming, Dick?"

Dick looked up from his computer to find Sal Fiorini standing in the doorway. He smiled. "It's pretty routine, so far," he said. "But then, I'm not making any changes yet; just mapping the data and identifying where the changes will need to be made."

The head of building security walked over to take a look. "How long will our systems need to be down for you to implement the upgrades?" he asked.

Dick typed a few lines into a spreadsheet and selected a background color for the cell. "I'm hoping they won't have to be down at all," he said. "I'll get back to you with timeframes when I have them, but ideally, we'll be able to route our operating systems over to Metropolis, as per our standard emergency protocols. Metropolis should be able to deal with any situations that might arise while we're updating, and then the next night, we run the upgrades in Metropolis and Dallas while Gotham stays live." He sighed. "Overseas might take a bit longer; some of the equipment uses different programs and components and I'm not sure what adjustments might need to be made before we can go to implementation." He paused. "For that matter, there might be legal issues involved—like if we have to notify some government office thirty days before implementation or get some kind of permit… I don't even know."

"Neither do I," Sal admitted, "but I'll find out. Plus, I'll make sure that you get the details on their systems specs. "Funny," he added, "I never really figured you for a tech type."

Dick grinned. "I dabble," he said. "That other job I've got requires a lot of skills. I'm no hi-tech expert, but I know enough to get the job done."

Sal shook his head, smiling back. "It's not just your knowledge base. Our IT department is sort of used to delivering speedy results. They work on making sure that a new program won't crash the system—but as far as issues that aren't critical but annoy the hell out of everyone…" he sighed. "They figure they'll fix it in the next version. I don't know if it's job security or panic, that if they don't have something ready by deadline, we'll fire them all, but I'd rather we take a little longer and get things right the first time."

"I hear you," Dick said with a nod. He pushed away from the computer, stood and stretched. "We haven't had any more suspicious deliveries, right?"

"Nope," Sal replied cheerily. "But I suppose you know that already." At Dick's puzzled expression, Sal continued, "I mean, you're probably keeping tabs on this place anyway?"

"Um…" He wasn't. _Babs, on the other hand…_ "Sort of indirectly," he admitted. "And not really as well as this thing will, if I do get up and running."

"I'll leave you to it, then." He paused in the doorway. "Give Bruce my best when next you see him, will you? Tell him I'm glad to hear he's doing better?"

Dick looked up sharply. "Um… sure." He returned to his typing, but took note that Sal had, in a doorway leading out to a well-frequented hallway, in an area where just about anybody could hear, expressed a heretofore unprecedented level of support for PMWE's president emeritus.

* * *

Cassandra Cain slid the audio CD into the drive of her computer and waited. As expected, there followed a series of low clicks and whirrs, before a new window opened and the logo of the testing program appeared on her screen.

"Welcome to GED preparation!" a pleasant voice announced. "Please type your name. Or speak into your microphone if you would like to take an oral test."

Cass found the microphone amid the tangle of USB cables and raised it to her lips. "Cass."

The voice continued, asking her to specify which sections of the test she wanted to include in her quiz. She swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry. I did not understand your answer. Please state which sections of the GED you would like to include in your examination. If you wish to take them all, say 'all'. To hear a list of sections, say 'list'."

She hesitated. Fifteen seconds ticked by. Thirty. Forty-five.

"Are you there?"

Cass nearly jumped. "Yes."

The voice repeated its instructions. "Please state which sections of the GED you would like to include in your examination. If you wish to take them all, say 'all'. To hear a list of sections, say 'list'."

Best to start easy. "Science."

"Thank you," the voice continued, speaking in the same clear, polite tone. "Science has been added to your list. If this is correct, say 'yes'…"

Inwardly, Cass moaned. If just asking the computer to set up a practice test was this involved, she wondered what it would be like when she finally got to the questions. This had been her idea. If she was going to have a scribe at the exam, then she needed to know that she could answer the questions in the time allotted. Doctor Arkham had said that the testing center would probably allow her more time than usual to complete each section, but he hadn't specified how much more. She was taking this practice test now to see how long she actually needed.

Barbara had been supportive. "They're probably going to want you to do something like this," she'd said, "so they'll be able to decide fairly. Taking timed practice tests will give Doctor McLeod something to work with when he fills out the paperwork for the testing center, too."

"I am still waiting for your input," the voice said calmly. "Do you need to hear the question again?"

It didn't matter that the voice didn't sound irritated with her. She was irritated with herself. She had to pay attention. She had to… She had to answer the question. "Yes."

Obediently, the voice recited the question again and listed the choices. She gave her answer and the voice moved on. Somewhere around the fourth question, she began to relax. She did know this material. And it was going faster than when she struggled with the worksheets.

"…Your score has been calculated. In… science… your score is… five hundred… twenty. Your percentile grade is… sixty… five… percent. Your GPA score is… two point six zero… or… B minus. This is a passing grade."

Cass's jaw dropped. _I passed? I… passed?_

"To hear your score again, say 'repeat'."

Her hands were shaking. "Repeat."

The voice obeyed.

"Repeat."

The voice obeyed.

Her underground lair was soundproof, so nobody else heard when she yelled at the top of her lungs "REEEEEEEEEEE-PEAT!" Nobody heard her exultant laughter either, which was probably just as well. She hated audiences.

* * *

"So that's where things stand," Bruce concluded wearily. "I knew that I'd need to prove myself in order to get into the academy, but I don't think I'd quite realized that I would need to _keep_ proving myself continually."

Alex nodded. "You've been comparing this process to your earlier training," he stated. "How's that analogy holding up?"

Bruce leaned back a bit in the leather-upholstered armchair. "All analogies break down at a certain point," he said. "If it were a question of proving that I had the discipline to learn a martial art, then after a certain point, a master would agree to take me on. From there… I didn't care about how long it took or how well I did," he said slowly, thinking back. "It was all about learning more than I knew before I'd come for instruction."

"I see," Alex nodded again. "And now?"

"Now?" Bruce's lips curved in a rueful smile. "Now it's about grades… test scores… panels. Approvals." He made a face. "Not exactly something I've had to worry about in the past couple of decades."

Alex paused. "I know that 'shrink-speak' is up there on your list of annoyances, but at this point, I can _ask_ you how you feel about that, or I assume I know and _tell_ you." He peered down his tortoiseshell glasses. "Do you have a preference?"

Bruce rolled his eyes with a sigh. "And there you go again, leveling with me to try to keep me off the defensive."

"I have my strategies. Well?"

"Well." Bruce was silent for a moment. "Did you know that my formal education stopped when I was fifteen? I pursued rigorous self-study; I've probably got the equivalent a couple of doctorates by now. But I left for Asia in the middle of my sophomore year. Which is another way of saying I ran away from boarding school in my second year of high school," he added. "I'm not used to studying for tests. I've studied, yes. Many disciplines, but always in order to learn the material, not in order to earn a grade. Plus," his voice dropped to a mumble, "I can't help thinking that a good portion of my showing at the panels is dependent on my being _liked_. Sucking up isn't exactly part of my skill-set and I don't think I want it to be."

"Mmm," Alex was non-committal. "I'm not sure I see it quite that way. I wonder… does mounting a verbal defense worry you?"

Bruce exhaled in a short laugh. "It's just one more thing outside my area of expertise. I'm used to being respected. Feared, even—and no," he said quickly, "before you ask, when I'm not dealing with lawbreakers, being feared isn't something I enjoy, but it's something I accept. Doing what I did… do… will do," his forehead creased, "I've learned to give off an aura of danger. It's automatic at this point—I put it on with the cowl. Turning it off requires conscious effort and," his voice dropped, "and maybe I'm not so eager to be thought of as just some guy in a costume."

"Sorry?"

Bruce sighed. "I'm not bullet-proof and I'm not a meta. If people start to see past the aura, it'll hurt my effectiveness in the field."

"I see," Alex said. "Now that puzzles me a bit. I mean, one would think that it would be to your advantage to be perceived as less-threatening and then catch your opponents off their guard."

Bruce winced. "That worked for _Robin_. I rely on fear, even more than on respect, to get the job done." He realized that he was speaking in the present-tense, but Alex didn't seem to care. "I'm not a brutalizer," he continued. "I'm out there to stop crime. At the end of the day, I'm happy if they run away in terror, surrender to the nearest cop, and don't try to rush me, though I can more than defend myself if they try. Besides, deliberately going in and looking for a fight is a good way to get killed. I'm not saying I haven't done it," he admitted, "but it was usually when I felt like I was coming apart inside and I needed an outlet." He shook his head. "Stupid, I know."

"I'd say it's understandable. People usually do lash out when they're hurt or angry."

"Yes, but that 'lashing out' is a good part of what's been under the microscope lately. What if they're right to be concerned?"

Alex frowned. "You told me once that you're constantly making contingency plans for if thing go wrong. I'd say that being a police officer is a fairly stressful line of work. The higher-ups are aware of that. If you don't mind my asking, how effective are your contingency plans when you're missing key data?"

Bruce looked up sharply.

"You've recognized it yourself: a lot of the things you've been asked… it hasn't been about whether you give 'good' answers, it's been about whether you give truthful ones."

"The officer who was upfront about recreational drug use," Bruce said slowly, remembering what Jim had told him. He'd mentioned it in passing to Alex. "He wasn't disqualified when he owned up to it."

" _Having_ a temper isn't necessarily a negative," Alex pointed out. "Frankly, if I were in the same room as a murderer or rapist, I'd be concerned if I weren't angry about it. _Losing_ your temper, on the other hand—and you'll note that I said 'losing your temper,' not 'getting angry'—is a different story. From what I've seen and heard," he continued, "I'm not worried. You can't control how you feel, but you can control how you show it. Something," he added, "that I suspect you already know."

Bruce nodded. "It's sometimes heartening to hear it from another party, though."

Alex smiled. "Now getting back to what you said earlier… I realize that, as Batman, you're not out there to please people, but surely in your civilian persona…?"

Bruce shook his head. "My civilian persona is great for society affairs, ribbon-cuttings, pointless chitchat, and leaving early. I found out exactly how effective that was when I went to Washington to speak against the No Man's Land bill."

"Ah," Alex nodded. "So, it's not so much a worry about fitting in… or being accepted."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Alex shrugged. "I might have misheard you, but that did seem to be a concern for you, _vis á vis_ the panel, at least."

He stifled a groan. "It's probably nothing. I'm sure I'll do fine."

"Okay…"

Silence. Then, finally, "It's not so much about acceptance. Not exactly. It's… I've managed to arrange my life in such a way that I'm not impacted by how people think of me. There are a few individuals to whom I'm close. Close enough that their opinions matter." He winced. "And, as we've established in the past, I tend to shut them out—usually, right around the time that they're ready to voice those opinions. However," he sighed. "I don't form attachments easily. I suppose that my money and my family have been more masks to hide behind; more ways to distance myself and ward people off. Yes, keeping them at arm's length protects me from prying eyes and piercing questions…"

"But?"

Bruce slumped. "I… haven't had any reason to try to earn anyone's respect, or try to make myself _likeable_. The people I've allowed to get close to me accept me for who I am—and, let's face it: even if I've been more… open… since Arkham, I've rarely wanted or needed to impress people and…"

Alex waited patiently.

Bruce took another breath. "And maybe that's it. Maybe the idea of actively trying to impress the panel, or not impress them… just to make a good showing… I hate being surrounded by sycophants. It's one thing I haven't missed about high society. Idiots bowing and scraping to get into my good graces because of the Wayne name and the Wayne fortune," he closed his eyes. "Mostly the fortune, I think. Intellectually, I understand that trying to impress the panel isn't the same thing, anymore than eagerness at a more conventional job interview constitutes brown-nosing— not that I've had occasion to be on too many of those, either. Still… I don't know these people. I don't particularly care about them or respect them beyond the… well, the basic respect that good manners require. And yet, I'm trying to get into their good graces because of the power they hold in this one instance." He frowned. "I suppose, it comes down to me not liking the fact that they _do_ hold power over me in this one instance, and…"

"And…?" Alex prompted.

Sounding slightly embarrassed, Bruce added, "and I don't exactly like being the lowest rung on the ladder and having to Sir and Ma'am people half my age with a fraction of my experience and…" he shook his head. "It just feels like I'm acting a role and I don't especially care for the character I'm portraying."

"But you're still going ahead with it."

Bruce nodded. "I don't like backing away from challenges. Or running from my fears. And…"

"And?"

Bruce smiled wearily. "It's been my experience that, when every instinct is screaming at me that I don't need to put myself through a particular hell, when I want to walk away the most… that's when I really need to stay the course."

* * *

A few nights later found Dick at Wayne Manor, bringing Bruce up to date. "…So, anyway," Dick finished, "I'm pretty sure that Sal wants you back. Again, not spilling anything until you give me the word, but I don't think he's playing me."

Seated across from him at the kitchen table, Bruce nodded. "Any word on who's taking over for Paxton?"

"That worries me," Dick admitted. "Ron was pretty open with me about who else was in on the original meetings and they all seem to have disavowed Paxton completely. Now, maybe he's backed off—but he hasn't exactly been great at cutting his losses and moving on, so far—or he's now trying to work alone…"

"Or," Bruce nodded again, his eyes narrowing, "he has other help—someone we don't know about, yet."

Dick nodded, tight-lipped as he shifted position in his chair. "I wish I didn't think that was the most likely scenario. With this whole business with Hush and the Mad Hatter, it's not like I've got time to go skulking around in Paxton's bushes on the off chance I'll recognize one of WE's 1800 employees paying a call. And that's if his alleged accomplice is someone with WE, instead of someone False Face introduced him to, mind you."

Bruce's lips twitched. "Sal's got you doing it now, I see." At Dick's blank look, the twitch became a smile. "WE."

"Oh," Dick grinned back. "That. Honestly, I've never really liked the name change, even though Lucius and I came up with it. We were both hoping that over time, we could drop the first two letters. Hasn't happened yet, but I'm hopeful."

"You always are."

"Wellll… usually," Dick hedged. He stifled a yawn."Sorry. Between my night job and my day job, I need to catch up on my sleep."

"Next time," Bruce said, "you don't have to come out here. You can just phone."

"I know."

Bruce sighed. "Dick. I'm fine."

"I know you are. I guess I just wanted to see it."

"Well," Bruce spread his arms, "now you have. I'm fine now and I'll be fine tomorrow when classes start."

Dick nodded. "Okay. But if things get rough, you can follow your own advice: just phone."

Bruce tried to glare, but this time, it left Dick unfazed.

"I mean it."

"Good night, Dick."

After showing Dick to the door, Bruce returned to the kitchen and slumped wearily into his chair once more. Unfamiliar territory, unknown personnel, and no contingency plans to speak of. Tomorrow was going to be _wonderful_ …


	20. 19. Finding the Center

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regular classes begin at the Police Academy and Bruce discovers that it's not going to be as easy as he's expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Xenith and Dungeonwriter for help with criminal justice advice. Thanks to Aiyokusama for physical training advice. Currently looking for a beta with subject-specific expertise in law enforcement and police academies in the US. I've been doing some hard research, enough that I feel confident posting this chapter, but I can't rule out the possibility that I've messed up somewhere. My sincere apologies to anyone reading this chapter who knows better.
> 
> A/N: "I'll Make a Man Out of You" written by Matthew Wilder and David Zippel. Recorded by Donny Osmond on the Mulan soundtrack album (Disney, 1998).
> 
> A/N: I've been browsing the forums at officer dot com. Sgt. Foch's speech is adapted from a comment by PhilipCal in a discussion on academy prep. The law about detaining homing pigeons was actually on the books until recently. It has since been struck down by the NJ State Assembly in real life, though not for the reason I've given here.

… _You can bet_  
Before we're through  
Mister, I'll make a man  
out of you

Tranquil as a forest  
But on fire within  
Once you find your center  
you are sure to win  
You're a spineless, pale  
pathetic lot  
And you haven't got a clue…

— _Matthew Wilder and David Zippel, "I'll Make a Man Out of You"_

**Chapter 19: Finding the Center**

Although Bruce had already been issued his Class A uniforms, Monday morning at 5:45 found him in a suit and tie, lined up with thirty-three other new cadets outside the Rucka Auditorium in the main building. The uniform was in a garment bag in the trunk of his car, as Fochs had advised him. After today, he would have a storage locker in which to keep it.

He hadn't bothered going to bed last night, settling for a four-hour afternoon nap, over Jim's pointed protests. Bruce hadn't minded. It had actually felt a little bit like old times to be nagged about his sleeping habits. Besides, Orientation Day began at six, which would have meant getting up before five —and he'd been in the cave alternating between meditation and target practice until well after two. Jim had called it 'first day jitters'. Bruce hadn't bothered dignifying that with a comment. It wasn't as though he'd _meant_ to be up that late. He'd just lost track of the time.

" _Fine!" Jim had fired off as a parting shot. "This is probably going to be your last chance at getting a late night workout on a school night for the next few months, anyway."_

_Bruce had turned around to face him then. "What makes you say that?" he'd demanded. "It's not like I'm taking the full course load."_

" _Right," Jim replied, peering down his glasses at him. "So… you were just planning to saunter in at noon or whenever every day. Maybe stand off to one side while everyone else is frantically cramming for the next Homeland Security pop quiz, completely unconcerned." He shook his head. "Look. I know how all those digs and cracks have been wearing you down. I haven't said anything, because first, you've been toughing it out, and second, there wasn't much of anything you could have done to stop it, beyond what you were already doing — unless you were going to quit. What you're thinking now, on the other hand?" He sighed. "If you don't want the prima donna treatment, then don't act like a prima donna!"_

_Bruce blinked. "So you think I should be at the academy from seven to four every day — and from six to five tomorrow?"_

_Jim nodded slowly. "I think you should plan on it, at least, for the next little while. There's more to the academy than academics, and just because you passed the courses doesn't mean you shouldn't take the opportunity to review a few things. Mind you," he said slowly, "it wouldn't surprise me if the top brass has something else in store." He smiled. "Part of the academy experience is about wearing you down, after all. Don't make assumptions and don't count on… whatever you've been counting on."_

_Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Do you… know something I don't?"_

" _I was a cop for more than twenty-five years," Jim chuckled. "What do you think?" His smile broadened. "While I could make an educated guess about what you'll respond to that question, I can make a better one about what the instructors at the academy are thinking. Your background investigation and test results highlighted your strengths, but they also pinpointed your weaknesses. Don't think you'll get away with keeping those under the rug for long," he said, his smile vanishing. "Because you won't." He sighed._

" _Now, I'm off to bed." He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. "Have a good day at school, tomorrow."_

_Bruce rolled his eyes at Jim's retreating back._

" _I saw that."_

He smiled at the memory, as the auditorium doors swung open and a uniformed officer began barking orders from the head of the line.

"Move inside. Take a seat in one of the first two rows. No talking. Eyes forward. It is now zero-five-fifty-five. Orientation will commence at precisely zero-six-hundred. Proceed."

They filed in.

* * *

At exactly 6 AM, true to the officer's word, MacInnes got up from his seat in the front row, ascended the steps to the stage, and took the lectern. His gaze panned the room, taking in each cadet, but never lingering too long on any one of them. Finally, he smiled thinly. "Good morning, cadets."

Maybe the others didn't know what was expected, but after his first dressing down from MacInnes, Bruce was ready. He was on his feet in an instant. "Good morning, Sir!" he snapped.

He wasn't the only one. At least half a dozen others responded similarly. Someone else snickered.

MacInnes whirled in that direction in an instant. "Your name?"

The young man swallowed, but replied firmly, "Pete Norton."

MacInnes waited, saying nothing, his gaze steady.

"Peter Norton… Sir."

MacInnes nodded. "That's right, Cadet," he said with deceptive mildness. "You will address your superior officers as 'Sir' or 'Ma'am'. Moreover, Cadet," his expression hardened, "you will follow the example set by those cadets who already know their business, and stand when spoken to. On your feet."

As Norton hastily complied, MacInnes waved his hand across the room, encompassing the others. "That goes for all of you! Stand up. We're going to try this again."

Wooden chairs creaked as seats tipped up and the class struggled to their feet.

MacInnes shook his head. "Pathetic," he said softly. "Fine. We'll begin at the beginning. Take your seats, all of you." He waited for the noise to die down. "Now. When I say to stand, you are going to stand in unison. You will remain standing at attention until I give you leave to do otherwise. And when I say 'Good morning, cadets,' you will all respond as your fellows did a minute ago. Am I being clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" the class chorused, mostly in unison.

MacInnes shook his head again. "We're going to get this right before you leave this room, if it takes us into tomorrow. Get up!"

Bruce sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long day…

* * *

The grand tour followed. Once again, Bruce found himself following Sgt. Fochs around the campus, only this time he was joined by 32 others. Fochs was going into far more detail this time. Whereas before, he had simply pointed out the buildings and landmarks, now he took them inside, showing them the classrooms (where they would be spending most of their time), the gym, library, and other areas of interest.

"Physical training takes place outside, unless there's a cold weather alert or," Fochs smiled, "a smog warning in effect. We're not actively trying to kill you, although I promise you, there will be times when you'll wonder."

There was an appreciative laugh.

Bruce took a moment to glance at the others. Most of them were Dick's age or younger, though he spotted a few who were clearly in their 30s. He was probably the oldest, however. Nearly half the class was female and at least a third, non-white.

"Get used to hard work," Fochs continues when the laughter subsided. "The course load is heavy and this isn't high school. The minimum passing grade is a 75. For firearm accuracy it's 84 with a pistol, 80 with a shotgun. If you fall behind, you will not catch up." He was still smiling, but his words, delivered in a friendly tone, were serious. "There won't be time. Some of you have families. Cherish the time you have with them. It's going to be minimal for the duration. It helps if your family is behind you, but even if they aren't, you're still going to need to stay on top of things."

His voice grew sterner as he continued. "If you study best in a group, show some initiative and form one. If you're better on your own, do that. Keep up with your courses, have your gear ready for inspection at all times, and you just might get to enjoy one day out of your weekend." He grinned. "Best financial investment you can make isn't going to be a new laptop — you'll be issued one before you're dismissed at the end of the day anyway. Forget the latest smart phone or energy bar. Oh and forget donuts until you're past physical training. You're going to need something with more nutritional punch. No," he shook his head. "The best investment you can make at this point is in a good iron. Your uniforms, including exercise gear, are to be clean and pressed at all times. Correction," he admitted, "exercise gear needs to be clean at the start of class. If parade grounds are muddy and your drill sergeant has you doing calisthenics, you will also be doing laundry that evening. Find a good detergent and a better stain remover. As you'll discover when you get your Class C uniforms, your t-shirts are white. Keep them that way. Athletic shoes are for physical training only. They may not stay white, but toss them in the washing machine as needed. Your dress shoes should always be clean and polished to a mirror shine. Get to bed early on Sunday night. Oh. And one other thing…"

Foch's normally cheerful face turned solemn. "I shouldn't have to say this, but I want to make it very clear. When classes are over and you go home, you may be on your own time, but you are still Gotham City Police Academy Cadets. If you break any laws while off-duty, expect to face repercussions inside campus as well as outside. If you drink while off duty, that is your legal right, but if you can't hold your liquor and you make an ass of yourself, it may not be illegal, but it will still bring down disciplinary action on your head. If you are found behind the wheel with a blood alcohol level of 0.08 or greater, you will be expelled." Someone must have looked disbelieving, because Fochs took a measured step forward.

"When you get out there, you're going to enforce the law. You'll embody the law. Anyone who thinks that that puts them above the law is invited to turn around and walk out now. If you withdraw before the first week is out, you'll get back almost your full tuition." He waited. "No takers? Good. Remember that, if you want people to listen to you when you tell them to obey the rules, you need to set an example." He drew himself up ramrod straight. "Am I being clear?"

Suspecting that this was about to become the norm for him, Bruce squared his shoulders and added his "Yes, sir!" to the chorus.

* * *

Selina lifted Helena out of the bathtub and enveloped her in a fluffy towel of luxurious Egyptian cotton — the kind carried in stores that seemed to loudly proclaim "If you want to know the price, you clearly can't afford it." Not that Helena knew that, of course. She just knew she liked wriggling in it. Selina was drying her daughter's hair when the telephone rang. She groaned. "It's like they psychically know the least convenient time for you to run and pick up," she groused. She had half a mind to ignore it, but it was a long distance ring. Best to listen and hear who it was.

Gathering up Helena, she emerged from the bathroom and strode briskly to the phone on the hall table, just as the message began to play.

"Bruce, it's Lois. I need to talk to you ASAP. Can you call me back at 302-555—"

Selina frowned. It didn't sound like she was trying to get a story. It sounded like she was trying to warn him about something. Unless that was a ploy. _Great. Live with someone this paranoid long enough and watch it start rubbing off on you. Not that it helps when people really ARE out to get him._ She grabbed the phone. "Lois, it's Selina. What's going on?"

"Selina?" For a moment, Lois sounded surprised, but she recovered quickly. "I hadn't realized I could reach you at this number." A sly note crept into her voice. "So, confidentially… is it Selina… or Selma?"

Selina laughed. "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. Normally, I wouldn't have picked up, but you sounded a bit tense and…"

"It's fine," Lois said. "And maybe it's nothing, only…" She paused. "No," she continued more firmly. "It's not nothing. Today, our Entertainment and Arts editor was prancing around the office gloating about having received an invitation to the latest Wayne Foundation gala. Normally, I wouldn't have thought anything of it, except for two factors."

Selina shifted Helena on her hip and switched the receiver to her other ear. "Go on."

"First, Cat's never been invited to a WF function before."

"Hold on," Selina smirked. " _Cat_?"

"Cat Grant, yes," Lois said impatiently. "Are you seriously going to waste time poking at a feline reference? As I was saying… she usually gets invites to society events here in Metropolis, but never in Gotham. And _never_ with travel and accommodation included." She took a deep breath. "Cat Grant might currently be one of our section editors, but she got her start as a gossip columnist and… let's just say that she sometimes still writes a society column as a 'special' and her roots are pretty apparent when she does."

Selina nodded, frowning. "I think I'm starting to get the picture."

"I think you are, too," Lois replied. "I caught that interview Bruce did with Summer Gleason almost two weeks ago. If he's going to be at that gala…" Her voice hardened. "I did some digging, made some phone calls. I've got contacts at other papers. Let's just say that Cat's not the only journalist with a society page credential who got an invitation. She may be one of the kinder ones, though."

Helena was squirming. Selina set her down with a mental sigh, knowing that the towel would be on the floor inside of a minute and her daughter would be streaking — and shrieking — down the hall. "What message did you want me to pass on to Bruce?"

"Just… tell him to be careful. And see if there's any way you can get an official list of who's already RSVP'd for that thing. The AP picked up that story about the woman with the bogus restraining order and the PMWE exec who hired an impersonator. If you can't incriminate an adversary, it's been my experience that humiliation is the next best thing."

Selina bit down on the inside of her lip. "I'll pass it on. Thanks."

After she hung up, she closed her eyes for a moment. _As if Bruce doesn't have enough to worry about right now…_ she thought angrily. Then she bent to pick up the towel and ran to chase after her daughter.

* * *

After the campus tour, another officer marched them into one of the classrooms. Unlike the auditorium, there were only forty seats here. Bruce considered and then took a chair in one of the middle rows toward the back of the room. The officer introduced herself as Sergeant Adams and divided them into groups of four and five. She handed out paper and pens, and instructed them to create a group resume.

"Don't be modest," Adams advised. "And don't just list past work experience. Some of you have unconventional skills. That's part of the reason you're here. List them."

There went his thoughts of keeping a low profile. He hadn't actually believed he'd be able to do so for long, but he'd entertained some fleeting hopes.

Two of the others in his group had their resumes with them and were quickly transcribing details onto the new sheets. Bruce started writing. After a few moments, he looked up and realized that the others had finished and were looking at him with disbelieving expressions.

"I'm almost done," he said. "Um…" He handed passed over the first two sheets. "You can have these."

A young woman with short auburn hair framing elfin features accepted them. "Guess I'd better start combining everything," she said.

Bruce continued to write, feeling increasingly self-conscious as he felt eyes from other tables focussing on him.

He was pleasantly surprised, however, when Adams began writing the class's skills on the whiteboard. There were more than a few entries that hadn't been on his list. His eyebrows shot up. An International Sniper Competition finalist, an eighth-place runner in the Boston Marathon. His eyes widened. Someone else had finished the Iditarod. Then there were veterans, transfers from the GCFD and the Harbor Patrol…

Adams' voice broke into his thoughts. "So, as you can see, each and every one of you is bringing a different set of skills and competencies to the table. Don't discount past experiences and don't assume that a fellow cadet whose class work is dead average has nothing to contribute. Every one of you has earned a spot in this class. Now it's on you to earn the right to continue."

* * *

Lunch was next. As Bruce downed his soup and sandwich in the cafeteria, he became increasingly aware of looks darting his way. Whispered snatches of conversation reached him.

"…Kinda old for a cadet. Think he'll keep up?"

"Man, have you been living under a rock? That's Bruce Wayne. As in _Batman_? Don't you read the papers?"

"That's him? Whoa. But he looks so… normal."

Bruce did his best to ignore the whispers and concentrate on the meal. The food wasn't bad — a hearty split pea soup and a roast beef sandwich — not gourmet fare, but certainly satisfying.

"He _wants_ you to think that," someone intoned in a sepulchral voice. "It's all part of the plan."

Bruce set down his spoon and looked around. Heads instantly lowered to plates and bowls and the room fell silent, apart from the sounds of scraping spoons and shifting chairs.

One of the cadets made eye contact for a moment, then smiled nervously and looked down again.

Bruce went back to his meal and tried to tune it out when the whispering started up again.

* * *

After lunch, Fochs handed out personalized access cards. Then he loaded them down with uniforms, policy manuals, locker assignments—both in the main building and the physical training area—and schedules. Bruce felt more than a few eyes on him when the sergeant passed him over for everything but the locker assignment, schedule, and card. He studied the schedule with a frown.

"Problem, Cadet?" Fochs asked quietly.

Bruce looked up. The other cadets were speaking amongst themselves now and didn't seem to be paying attention to them. "I'm not sure," he said in an equally low tone. "…Sir," he added belatedly, as he saw the sergeant's expression harden.

Fochs nodded. "Better." He turned around. "Carry on, Cadets," he called. Then he motioned Bruce toward the door. "Walk with me."

As soon as they were outside, Fochs turned to him. "I'll ask again," he said seriously. "Is there a problem, Cadet?"

Bruce hesitated. "Sir, are you aware of the agreement that I made with Commissioner Sawyer before I applied to the academy?" he asked.

Fochs nodded. "I am." He motioned to Bruce to keep walking.

"Sir, this is a complete schedule."

"That's correct." Fochs paused. "Let me ask you something, Cadet. If you hadn't been given the texts for review, had you taken the exams with no preparation, how do you think you would have scored?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Lower, Sir."

Fochs smiled. "That's why you have a complete schedule. Don't misunderstand me. The deal you struck with the commissioner holds. You don't have to attend the classes you've already passed. However, the material on which you were tested was never intended to be something you learned for an examination and then forgot. You need to have the data in your head at all times — because sometimes, you won't have the luxury of pulling over to check your onboard computer. I know the panels have been down on you about your past use of physical force. At the very least, you need to know when you _are_ sanctioned to use it." He frowned. "Unless you're one hundred percent positive that you won't second-guess yourself at the worst possible time."

Bruce stopped. "Excuse me?"

"Before I was assigned here as an RTO," Fochs said with a shrug, "I used to work vice at Third Precinct, down in Park Row. Let's just say I've had to make a few split-second decisions — which IA subsequently supported."

Bruce frowned. "To clarify, Sir, you're saying that I can disregard this schedule, with the exception of the subjects I haven't yet passed."

"That is what I'm saying, Cadet," Fochs nodded. "However, my recommendation to you is to go home tonight. Take your policy manuals and turn to the practice tests at the back. Pick ten to fifteen questions at random from each one and see if you still know the material. If you don't, I'd strongly suggest that you audit the classes. Think of the tests as optional; but, if you get a better grade the second time around, it will stand."

"And if I do know the material… Sir?"

Fochs shrugged. "Do what you want. I still recommend auditing the classes. Of course, this is just some friendly advice, not an order. But it's friendly advice from someone who's been here for a few years and knows what he's talking about." He smiled again. "Not to mention, friendly advice from someone with two rounds at Kelly's riding on your successful completion of the program. I'm just protecting my investment," he added. "Think it over, Cadet. Let's head back."

* * *

Bruce returned to the manor, Fochs's final exhortations to them all to get a good night's sleep ringing in his ears. He pulled into the cave and noted a metallic blue Camry hybrid parked in one of the bays. He shook his head in resignation, but he wasn't really displeased—or surprised to find that Dick was already here. He took a deep breath and headed upstairs.

He couldn't quite suppress a smile as he stepped into the living room. Dick was taking Helena through some basic stretches, while Selina looked on.

"Hey, that's great," Dick was saying. "But I betcha can't do it like this! See?" Both were sitting in their stocking feet on the carpeted floor, their legs extended straight out in front of them. As Bruce watched, Dick slowly bent forward until his fingers touched his toes. "Can you keep your knees straight?"

Helena studied him for a moment, her small face serious. Then she bent forward.

"Uh oh!" Dick warned. "Look at your knees!"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Helena's dismay was so comical that Bruce had to stifle a laugh. Dick felt no such restriction. In a moment, Helena was giggling too, and Dick reached over and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.

"Okay," Dick grinned. "Let's try again. Watch…" As he returned to the starting position, he glanced over at her. "Now, you."

This time, she got it.

"Whoo! Atta girl, Helena! Yayyyy!" Dick applauded as Helena beamed. "Can you do another one?"

"I thought we'd agreed that you were going to call ahead," Bruce remarked, though with none of the irritability that would have marked his words in times past.

Dick looked up. "Oh, hi, Bruce," he replied. "The thing about calling me ahead is that you don't always pick up." He pulled up to a shoulder stand and flipped upright, causing some of the crystal knickknacks in the breakfront to sway. "Sorry," he murmured. "That didn't happen the last time I tried it."

"As I recall," Bruce remarked, straight-faced, "the last time you tried it, you were eleven." He stooped to detach Helena from his leg and swept her up to his shoulders.

"Yeah. That could be a factor," Dick replied with equal seriousness. The smile returned a moment later. "So, how'd it go?"

Bruce sighed. "I suppose, as well as could be expected." He hesitated. "Maybe it's good that you're here. I've been presented with a dilemma. I've heard from two parties already, but I'd like your input."

Dick blinked. "Hit me."

* * *

Dick's opinion finally convinced him. At 6:58 the next morning, Bruce joined the 30 cadets already lined up in front of the criminal law classroom, his text book and policy manual under one arm, together with the three-ring binder he'd been directed to procure.

The cadet in front of him turned around. "Morning."

Bruce smiled pleasantly and returned the greeting.

"Steve Kotsopoulos," he said, shifting his books to his left arm and extending his right.

Bruce shook it firmly. "Bruce Wayne."

"Yeah," Steve grinned. "I know. Rumor has it…" His voice trailed off as a tall, dark-skinned woman in GCPD blue, her hair twisted in a no-nonsense bun, approached them, the soles of her polished black oxfords barely squeaking on the slate flooring. As she drew closer, the others fell silent as well.

She surveyed them slowly before pursing her lips and pushing them in and out. "Good morning, Cadets."

This time, they responded in unison.

In the distance, Bruce heard the sound of running feet drawing closer. He wasn't the only one. The instructor's face settled into a stony frown. There was a skittering sound, which Bruce identified as a metal pen clip hitting slate tile, followed by a muffled curse as the footsteps momentarily halted. Then came the thud of a textbook falling and the rustle of loose-leaf pages. The instructor's brown eyes slid over them, almost daring them to laugh. Nobody accepted the challenge.

A moment later, Peter Norton rounded the corner and raced toward them. His cap was askew, his clip-on tie was falling off, and one of his sleeves was unbuttoned. Lined paper was spilling out of his three-ring binder at all angles—he'd clearly shoved them inside the cover without securing them in the rings—and there was a highlighter cap clipped to the cover, with no highlighter in evidence. He took one look at the others and his face, already bright red from exertion, grew several shades rosier.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

The instructor bore down upon him. "I didn't quite catch that, Cadet."

Norton did his best to stand at attention and keep his books from slipping. Several sheets of paper floated to the ground, despite his best efforts. "Sorry, Ma'am!" he belted out smartly.

She looked him up and down, her expression thunderous. "That's going to cost you twenty push-ups, Cadet."

Norton blinked.

"Now, Cadet! We don't have all day." Someone snickered and her head snapped up. "That goes for all of you. Drop your supplies, get down, and give me twenty."

In a moment, thirty-two cadets were hastening to obey. Once they were done and had been instructed to pick up their things and stand once more, the instructor bore down on Norton again. "In the field, Cadet, carelessness can be fatal. Sloppiness can be fatal. Tardiness can be fatal. If not to you, then to every fellow officer depending on you." She surveyed them impassively. "Doubtless," she continued, now addressing the entire troop, "you're familiar with the maxim most often proclaimed by the Three Musketeers, 'All for one, one for all'?"

Silence greeted her. From what Bruce's peripheral vision could make out of the expression on Kotsopoulos' face, he could tell that the other cadet was coming to the same conclusion that he himself had drawn as soon as they'd all been ordered to the ground.

"I asked you a question, Cadets."

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am!"

She nodded. "Good. Because one of the most important things that each and every one of you needs to get into you heads is that your actions, positive and negative, will have repercussions for the entire class." She looked at Norton. "By tomorrow morning at 0700 hours, Cadet, I will expect, in my email, a memorandum from you detailing your infraction, the reason, and the steps you have taken to prevent a reoccurrence. Moreover," she continued, surveying the entire class, "I will expect a five-hundred word essay from each of you on the importance of punctuality."

"Oh, come on!" someone muttered. "Are we back in middle school?"

"Six hundred words."

Norton raised his head. "Ma'am, that's not fair. I'm the one who was late."

"Yes. You were. And just as your actions can negatively impact your team in the field, the same applies in the classroom. Seven hundred words."

He opened his mouth again, but before he could utter a sound, she stopped him.

"Care to go for eight hundred, cadet?"

"Shut up!" someone hissed.

After a moment, Norton lowered his eyes.

"Inside, all of you," the instructor ordered. "We've wasted enough time on this." She unlocked the classroom door. "Find a seat."

They began to file in. As Bruce was about to walk through the door, she stopped him. "Cadet Wayne?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I was advised that you had already passed this course. Is that true, Cadet?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Then why are you here, Cadet?"

Bruce returned her gaze levelly. "I'm part of this class, Ma'am."

She eyed him searchingly for a long moment before a hint of grudging approval showed in her face. "Just so we're clear: if you're part of the class, Cadet, you're part of it in good times and bad. You don't get to opt in to the lectures and out of the discipline. In other words, Cadet, I hope you think your change of heart is worth a seven-hundred-word essay." She extended her arm. "After you."

* * *

Selina waited until Bruce had left for the academy before calling Barbara. "…So," she concluded, "I didn't get around to telling him last night. I figured he had enough on his plate, and I didn't want to dump more on him on his first day." She closed her eyes. She knew that he would have wanted her to tell him, but that didn't mean that he would have wanted to hear about it. Particularly when there wasn't much he could do to counter it. "Can you do some checking for me?" she asked. "Find out how bad it is?"

There was a pause on the other end of the telephone. Selina could hear the faint sound of typing on a computer console before Barbara's voice came on the line. "I'm on it," she said. "Wonder if it's too late to get them to move the gala to a weeknight, so Bruce would have a reason to miss it."

Selina smiled at the thought but, although Barbara couldn't see it, her head was shaking as she did. "You know he wouldn't back down now." Then, under her breath, she added, "If you look up 'blind bat stubborn' on Wonkipedia, there's a photo of Bruce there."

"I know," Barbara said seriously. "I just added it last week."

Selina tried to stifle a laugh. It worked, too—until Barbara giggled. Then she lost it.

"I'll see what I can find out," Barbara promised, calming down. "After I get some sleep. I've been up all night running interference for the League." She sighed. "Crisis in Indonesia. It won't be in the papers, I don't think, but it was tense for a couple of hours. Besides," she admitted, "I wasn't sure if anyone else might come down with a bad case of insomnia and pick up the phone."

"I hear you," Selina smiled. "I don't know if anyone would actually think to do that, but it's nice to know it's an option." She heard a squeal of laughter from down the hall. "Enjoy your nap, Barbara. That's one option I don't think I have anymore."

On the other end of the line, Barbara chuckled and closed the connection.

* * *

The rest of the class passed without incident. The instructor introduced herself as Sgt. Calhoun, and wrote her name on the whiteboard. She took attendance, handing out plastic name plates with each "Here," and instructing them to keep them on their desks at all times. One person was missing. Bruce wondered whether they'd already dropped out. Calhoun didn't dwell on the matter. Instead, she immediately launched into an overview of the state penal code. Most of it was familiar to Bruce already, but he dutifully took notes. As the period progressed, he realized that, in addition to knowing her material, Calhoun had a real love for the subject.

"Many of you," she stated, "may be able to recall a time, not too long ago, when the Criminal Code was temporarily suspended." She surveyed the classroom. "How many of you were in Gotham during the No Man's Land?"

Several hands shot up, Bruce's among them.

"For those of you who weren't, read up on it when you can. It's a prime example of what happens when folks just make the rules up as they go along. We want to believe that people are basically good, and some are. But when people believe that they can commit an illegal act with impunity, up to and including murder, many will. Some of the laws that we're going to learn will seem like common sense. Others will make you agree with Charles Dickens when he wrote that the law was an ass. For example," she said, "when we get to section 2C of the criminal code, you'll find that it's illegal to wear a bulletproof vest while committing a murder. And no," she added, "that does _not_ mean it's legal to commit murder if you aren't wearing one."

There was a ripple of amusement.

"It's illegal for a man to knit during the fishing season."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up at that. _Looks like there's one crime I really_ _ **haven't**_ _witnessed in this city._

Calhoun wasn't done yet. "For obvious reasons," she said, "these laws tend to be ignored. Unless your criminal justice instructor is looking to add a bonus question on a pop quiz," she smiled.

A few people laughed.

"Every now and again, though, there's a chance that one of them might be repealed. It's currently illegal to delay or detain a homing pigeon. However," she continued, "since The Birdwoman walked when it turned out that the bulk of the DA's case hinged on evidence uncovered by intercepting her trained pigeons," Her lips twitched, "that one's currently before the State Assembly. If it's repealed before the end of the program, I'll announce it so you'll have the correct information to study for your exams."

She glanced at her watch. "We're done for the day. I look forward to your essays. Review Section One of the text book for next class and have your notes typed up in your binders and ready for inspection. Take ten minutes now to do what you need. Report back at oh-eight-thirty." One eyebrow quirked up. "Don't be late."

 _Ma'am, yes ma'am_ , Bruce thought sardonically, wondering whether he'd made a mistake in taking everyone's advice after all.

* * *

Ethics was next. He recognized the instructor from his panel exam. More classes followed before lunch rolled around.

Once again, Bruce found himself in line behind Kotsopoulos, this time in the cafeteria. "I wouldn't," he ventured as his classmate reached for a second sandwich.

Kotsopoulos turned to face him. "I'm hungry," he said.

"So am I, but physical training is up next. Eating too much before calisthenics probably isn't the best idea." Seeing the other man frown, Bruce shrugged. "Your call. But keep in mind that a hundred ab-crunches or so right when you're trying to digest isn't the best idea." He sighed. "I… have more experience than I'd care to admit about things like that."

Kotsopoulos considered. Then he picked up the second plastic-wrapped sandwich and returned it to the counter. "Got any more tips?"

"Going by this morning?" Bruce asked. "I'm setting my alarm a half hour earlier tonight."

"So, what's it like in the field?" a young woman who looked like she was barely out of high school asked. "I mean, how much of what we learn here is actually going to apply?"

Bruce frowned. "Why ask me?"

"Well," she looked down, her face flushing. "You've been out there."

"Not as a police officer," Bruce pointed out. "My past methods were a bit different from standard operating procedure and I'd rather not give you the wrong information."

The young woman—Bruce thought her name was Ortega—hesitated. "A few years ago," she said finally, "my older sister was taken hostage by Mr. Zsasz. She was lucky. She lived." She looked down. "Thanks to you. I spent last night flipping through the texts and… there's no unit on how to deal with…" she hesitated. "Well, I guess with… Gotham. I thought maybe you'd know something that might make a real difference out there."

Bruce nodded his expression sober. This was something he could understand all too well. "The best advice I can give you is to try to keep your emotions out of it. I've… generally taken more severe injuries when I've let my feelings run high. Other than that, if you suspect you're going to face a… costumed foe, check the files ahead of time. The more you know about an adversary, the less scary they seem."

"I dunno," Norton said dubiously. "The more I read about Joker, the less I want to face him."

"Yes, but you'll have a better idea of what you're dealing with when you do," Bruce pointed out. "Better the devil you know…" He frowned as someone sauntered into the cafeteria and grabbed a tray. The newcomer was wearing a Class A uniform like the rest of them, but Bruce was positive that he hadn't been there earlier.

From the looks that the others were exchanging, they didn't recognize him either.

The newcomer glanced around the room and grinned. "What'd I miss this morning?" he asked. Without waiting for a response, he took a yogurt and fruit cup from the display. "I overslept, but I figured the first day was just going to be 'meet the teachers and get the sylilabuses," he frowned, "silly busses. Whatever. No big deal."

Kotsopoulos shot the rest of the table an incredulous look. "Who wants to set him straight?"

"My guess," Bruce said dryly, "is that we won't have to. This is likely to be resolved in about a half hour."

Norton coughed. "Uh… people. I'm sorry about this morning."

Bruce shook his head. "If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else."

"Yeah, but it _was_ me."

"And if I'd been about three minutes later, it would have been me. Look at it this way: a few extra push-ups aren't going to kill any of us. Let it go."

* * *

Craigie wasn't waiting for them on parade grounds. The beefy drill sergeant introduced himself as Sgt. Severin. After the first five minutes, Bruce was fairly sure that the man had been military before coming to the academy. He began by taking attendance. When he finished, he surveyed the line, his face neutral.

"Jandt," he said again, "step forward."

The cadet who had joined them at lunch obeyed.

"Mind explaining to me why the access report shows you entering the main building at oh-one-hundred today and not earlier?"

Jandt was silent.

"I asked you a question, Cadet."

"I overslept, Sir."

"Until oh-one-hundred?"

"Eleven-thirty, Sir."

"Oh," Severin replied slowly. "E-leven thirrrrr-ty," he repeated drawing out the syllables. "Well. That would mean that you missed out on the twenty push-ups the rest of the class had to do this morning, when someone else thought they could pop in whenever they felt like it. You can start by doing them now plus another ten."

Jandt didn't move.

"Cadet. Drop and give me thirty!"

"Sir, the ground's muddy."

"Oh, the ground's muddy," Severin mimicked. "Well, we're not going to stand here and wait for it to dry, Cadet! Get down! Forty."

Jandt obeyed.

The rest of the class watched in silence.

When Jandt finally stood, his uniform bore a layer of mud from neck to knee.

Severin looked at him. "One person showing up two minutes late netted everyone else a seven hundred word essay. Your arriving six hours late should be…" He surveyed the class noting the looks of horror on more than a few faces. "At ease," he said finally. "I'm just going to slap another hundred words on. Cadet Jandt, you'll also submit a second essay to me, one thousand words, on the importance of pulling your own weight. In addition, you'll compose a memorandum explaining how you messed up and how you won't mess up again. That's going into your file. Get your assignments from one of your classmates and don't count on getting much sleep tonight." He gave him a final withering glance. "Now, get back in line."

He surveyed the line again. "We're going to start with the basics. When I say 'fall in,' form two lines. Seventeen in the back row, sixteen in the front, with four feet of space around you in all directions. You will stand at attention. In case any of you newbies don't know what that is, it means chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. Your arms should be fixed at your sides with your middle finger parallel to your trouser seam, eyes front and heels together with your feet out at a forty-five degree angle." He held up a protractor. "In case of dispute, this is the final arbiter."

Nobody laughed.

"Fall in!"

There was some controlled scrambling as they tried to sort themselves into two rows. As Bruce stole a quick glance at the field, he saw that there were only fourteen cadets in the front row.

Severin rolled his eyes. "Looks like we've got a LOT to do." He beckoned to the back row. "You two on the ends, come forward. Join the front." He walked up along the front row. "I said a forty-five degree angle, Cadet."

Kotsopoulos saluted smartly. "Sir, yes, Sir!" he said, moving his feet further apart.

"Better."

He turned as if to go, and then came back. "Those shoes are scuffed, Cadet! Drop and give me ten."

"Yes, Sir!"

He moved on as Kotsopoulos dropped. He handed out ten push-ups each to the next five cadets for the same reason, before ordering the rest of the class to the ground. When they rose again, he surveyed them poker-faced. "From now on, you will each keep a shoe polish kit in your lockers. This exercise was just a little something to help you remember. That's for tomorrow. For now, we're going to learn some basic drill commands. Starting with ATTENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNshun!"

Bruce found that it was possible to stand even straighter as his arms snapped involuntarily to his sides.

* * *

Firearms handling was next. To Bruce's relief, Farnham devoted the entire lesson to gun safety and maintenance.

"Nobody gets to set foot on the firing range until they know this material cold," he said. "Read over the sections in the manual on how to clean and check your weapons," he concluded. "There'll be a written quiz tomorrow. After that, you'll start putting theory into practice, beginning with cleaning and checking your own weapons."

Once he dismissed them, the cadets hurried to the PT locker rooms to change into their Class C uniforms for physical training.

Craigie was waiting for them when they came back. Without being told, they formed a single line and stood at attention for inspection. Craigie walked along, surveying them. Then he ordered them to remove their sweatshirts.

There was a murmur of dismay. It was barely above the freezing mark, and in the mid-afternoon, the temperature was dropping.

"Don't worry," Craigie smiled. "You'll be working up a good sweat before you know it." He proceeded to take them through a fifteen minute warm-up drill comprised of stretches, lunges, jumps and squats.

Bruce managed it easily enough, but from the grunts and gasps around him, he could tell that not all of his fellow cadets were as fit.

Craigie blew his whistle. "I don't know how some of you wusses got in. That was pathetic!" he bellowed. "When I call off your names, step forward: Burns! Dawson! Jandt! Kim! Laramie! Lerner! Norton! Paulof! Wayne!"

Bruce blinked. His first thought was that he'd misheard. Maybe there was a Cadet _Payne_ in the class, or some other Wayne. He took a disbelieving step forward. Craigie marched up.

"Cadet Wayne," he growled, "recite the movements in the drill that you have just completed including the number of repetitions."

Bruce squared his shoulders and complied.

"Cadet Wayne," Craigie said, "you will work with these cadets for the next forty-five minutes. At the end of that time, you will have them able to complete this drill or you will run five laps for each cadet who cannot. Am I being clear?"

Bruce kept his face impassive as he replied with the obligatory "Sir, yes, Sir!" So that was it. Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't put less-disciplined trainees through harder exercises. He turned to the others. Some looked nervous, others embarrassed. Jandt smirked.

Bruce moved into the first position. "For the bend and reach," he began firmly, stand with your hands in the air—"

"Isn't that for the crooks?" Jandt sneered.

Bruce glared at him. "Hands in the air," he repeated. "As if a… crook took you by surprise because you were too busy trying to be clever to remember to watch your back."

Someone chuckled.

"That wasn't a joke," Bruce said. "Overconfidence can be your worst enemy. Criminals do stupid things. That doesn't make them stupid. Now. Hands in the air, palms facing in, feet shoulder distance apart in the straddle stance." He frowned at a wiry young man with an olive complexion and close-cropped white-blond hair. "Straddle stance," he repeated.

"I'm… sorry, Sir. Um… Cadet. Cadet Wayne. I… I don't know what that is."

"Feet pointed straight," Bruce explained. "That's it, Cadet… Laramie?"

"Yes, Cadet Wayne."

He was about to tell Laramie to drop the formalities, when he realized that in this circumstance, it was probably warranted. Definitely, telling them to call him "Bruce" was a bad idea here, where everyone was addressed by surname. Keeping the rank seemed safest. "On count one, bend at the waist, bend your knees a little and place your hands on the inside of your ankles. On two, return to starting position. One…"

Forty minutes later, Bruce could see that four of them were getting the hang of it. Three were doing better, even if they weren't where Craigie wanted them. Then there was Jandt, who seemed to be treating the entire exercise like a big joke. He was quick with a sneer or a snide remark, but went through the motions of the drill languidly, as though he was doing Bruce a huge favor by deigning to participate. "Just a suggestion," he said, addressing them all. "Practice this tonight any time you have fifteen minutes to spare."

"Yes, Cadet Batman, suh!" Jandt said with a mocking salute.

Bruce let it pass.

All too soon, Craigie was back. "Let's see what they've got, Cadet," he told Bruce. "Walk 'em through."

Now, Jandt made a show of trying to perform the drill properly, but it was obvious to Bruce that he was deliberately going more slowly than the others. The other cadets were giving it their all—with varying results.

Craigie nodded curtly. "Not bad, Cadet," he said. "But you can make them do better. Twenty laps."

Bruce acknowledged the order and turned toward the track. Craigie's voice checked him.

"Hold it, Cadet."

Bruce stopped.

"I think you need company. Cadet Jandt. Thirty laps."

"What?" For the first time since Bruce had started working with him, Jandt wasn't smirking.

"Do you have a question, Cadet?" Craigie was nearly purring.

Jandt swallowed. "Sir, that's not fair. You never said…"

"I never said that if you mucked around, disrespected a fellow cadet in a position of authority over you, failed to pull your own weight and did not take the exercise seriously that you WOULD _FACE_ _ **CONSEQUENCES**_?" His voice had been rising steadily as he spoke, until his last word came out as a shout. "Welcome to the Gotham City Police Academy. You think you have what it takes to be a peace officer? Let me paint you a goddamned picture. One day, you are going to be given a job to do, and it won't be something glamorous or fun. It won't be the kind of thing that gets you a medal or your picture in the paper. But it's going to be a job and your team is going to depend on you to do it. Are you going to decide, 'Oh, _now_ , I'm going to pitch in and do what's expected,' or are you going to shrug it off because you don't believe it's necessary and you think that, even if you're wrong, if any heads are gonna roll they'll be those of the higher-ups? Let me tell you something, Cadet Jandt," Craigie took another step forward. "At this moment, your head is on the chopping block and I am holding a keen-edged ax. So, get the hell out on that track, run your thirty laps and be damned glad I don't slap another ten on for insubordination. Get moving."

As Jandt staggered off, Craigie turned back to Bruce. "Cadet Wayne," he said calmly, "go run your twenty. "The rest of you… On your backs! Let's see how many ab-crunches you can do in a minute."

* * *

Lester Paxton was trying to keep a low profile. In the last few days, he had stayed home for the most part, emerging only to visit his lawyer. His wife was often out of the house. She was volunteering at a local distress hotline. Or a soup kitchen. Or fundraising for United Path. He shook his head. They'd always been active in various charities and other non-profits, but while Lester had been more than happy to write a check and get his tax write-off, Vivi tended to get more hands-on.

Since his involuntary leave of absence from PMWE, she'd been getting more hands-on than usual. Or had she always been this involved and he'd just been too caught up in his work to notice? He was noticing now. A few times, he'd been tempted to join her, but the thought of being spotted by some reporter and pressed to comment on his current situation kept him homebound.

Cliff had told him to avoid the media at all costs. A month ago, he would have been sure he could handle them without letting the wrong thing slip out, but then he wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place if he hadn't said the wrong thing to Chiarello. He couldn't take the chance. He had no intention of going to prison, and if Cliff thought that keeping out of the public eye would help his case, then he would listen to his lawyer and barricade himself in his Brentwood mansion until his court date.

He was startled out of his thoughts when the front gate intercom buzzed. Derek never came this early and he would have called first. "See who that is, Thackeray," he called to his butler. "And if it's the media, I'm not here."

Thackeray nodded his acknowledgement and left the room. Nearly five minutes later, he returned. "The gentleman refused to tell me his business, Mr. Paxton," he said. "However, he did advise that he was leaving his calling card in your mailbox. I took the liberty of going to the gate to retrieve it for you." He handed Paxton a small white envelope.

Paxton took it, extracted the folded note inside and frowned. "Who the hell is Dr. Thomas Elliot?"


	21. 20. Standout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce starts settling into the Academy. Hush plots. And the gala looms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Standing Out in the Crowd" written by Sara Majors and Maia Sharp. Recorded by Trisha Yearwood on her Jasper County album (MCA, 2005).
> 
> A/N: Some police academies appoint squad leaders for the duration of the program. Others work on a rotation, allowing each cadet to spend roughly two weeks in the position. I've decided that the GCPA uses option one. Police academy rules on the different classes of uniforms vary by institution. The GCPA's policies are consistent with those of The Basic Police Academy, which is offered in California at Evergreen Valley College in San Jose, Gavilan College in Gilroy, the College of San Mateo in San Mateo, and Monterey Peninsula College in Monterey.

_Standing out in the crowd,_  
Where the spotlight finds you and singles you out.  
What are they whisperin' about?  
You're thinkin' up ways to take up less space...  
Instead of embracing it...

— _Sarah Majors, Maia Sharp, "Standing Out In the Crowd"_

**Chapter 20—Standout**

The academy day finally ended and Bruce took a moment to lean back in the driver's seat and close his eyes before turning on the engine. It was hard to believe that barely nine hours had elapsed since he'd arrived this morning. It felt like a lifetime since he'd made that twenty-minute drive.

When he got home, he knew that the others would be asking him for details. They wouldn't really care much about the classes, though. They'd want to know how he _felt_ about it.

He would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't meant opening them. He still wasn't sure. He hated the power hierarchy and the military-style discipline; ironic, since he liked it just fine when he wasn't on the receiving end. His classmates were a mixed bunch, from Sanders and Ortega—who had asked for tips on fieldwork, to Norton—who seemed to be making every mistake in the book… but so far, not making the same one twice. Then there was Kotsopoulos. Bruce had hit it off with him almost immediately, but time would tell if anything would come of it.

His lips twitched. He probably owed Jandt a favor. Jim and Dick had both warned him that the administration would be ready to pounce on him at the first hint that he thought he might be above any other cadet in the program, only too happy to take the 'billionaire vigilante' down a peg or two. The top brass might have expected him to act like the entire exercise was some sort of joke, but Jandt had actually done it. It occurred to him to wonder whether the other cadet had some reason why he'd seemed to think that he'd be allowed to act as he had. Was he really that clueless or did he have some hold over administration? He could always ask Barbara to do some digging, but it was probably a bit premature. If it did become necessary to delve, he could do his own legwork, assuming he had time.

He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for home.

* * *

He found two unstarted one-quart freshpacks of jamocha almond fudge ice cream in the freezer behind the one he'd half finished. Once again, he found himself ruing the night he'd let Jim pry his favorite flavor out of him. With a sigh, he turned toward the surveillance camera. "It wasn't _that_ bad," he announced.

"I'm glad," Selina said, entering the kitchen. "I thought I heard you come in." She crossed the distance between them swiftly and brought her arms to his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his neck.

After a moment's hesitation, he brought his hands to her waist.

"When you say it wasn't that bad..." she began.

Bruce tensed. "I'm not in the mood for a debriefing right now," he cautioned.

Selina tilted her head to one side. "There's more than one way to debrief a man," she said wickedly, bringing one hand down toward his belt buckle.

That got her a startled laugh, covered almost instantly by a coughing fit.

"Sorry," she said, eyes dancing. "It just—"

Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling, too. "You have nothing to apologize for. However, I think we might want to delay these activities," he brought his lips swiftly to hers, "for a time when I'm in a frame of mind to more fully appreciate them."

Selina regarded him for one long moment. Then she returned the gesture with considerably more passion. "I think that's the gentlest rejection you've ever handed me."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I consider it more a postponement."

" _I_ consider it progress." She eyed the still-open freezer behind him. "Your ice cream's melting."

"Not yet," Bruce countered. Still, he took the started ice cream tub out of the freezer quickly and shut the door. "I've been taking notes and running around in circles," he said, sinking into a chair. "Literally. How about you?"

"I think I could use some of that," Selina said, gesturing toward the tub. "Should I grab another container or is there enough in there for both of us?"

Bruce held the tub up experimentally, mentally subtracting the weight of the packaging from the weight of the ice cream and dividing it by two. "We can split this," he said. "To start."

"Good enough," Selina smiled. Then she turned on the hot water tap in the sink, letting the water run as she took two bowls out of the cabinet and set them on the table. "Helena dropped my cell phone in the toilet," she remarked over the water. She had the scoop in her hand now and set it under the stream. "I'm going to have to get it replaced tomorrow."

Bruce winced and nodded. "Where is she now?"

"Napping. I'll get her up in about a half hour," she said, returning to the table with the scoop in one hand and two spoons in the other. "So, is this going to be a thing now?" she asked. "I mean, you getting up before the crack of dawn and coming back exhausted. Are you going in for the whole shebang?"

Bruce considered. Long though the day had been, it hadn't been boring and it hadn't felt like a waste of his time. Knowing that he didn't need to be tested again on the material meant that he could absorb the intricacies under less-stressful conditions. "Yes," he said slowly. "I believe I am."

* * *

Lester Paxton turned the white card over again absently. He wove it between his fingers, under the middle, over the ring, under the pinky. He pressed a corner between thumb and forefinger, absently grinding it between them.

"Who is he, Thackeray?" Paxton asked softly. "What does he want?"

The butler shook his head. "I don't know, Sir," he said again.

Paxton rolled his eyes. "Facespace turns up over 27 possible candidates in Gotham alone, and that's if we assume that 'Elliot' is a surname. If it's a middle name, the field widens to 61. PluggedIn gave me a surgeon, a radiologist, five teachers, a plumber, a dozen telephone representatives and a welterweight boxer."

"And that's assuming that 'Thomas Elliot' isn't an alias, Sir," Thackeray ventured.

Paxton snorted and rolled his eyes once more. "Hell, for all we know, it's a scheme cooked up by Batman to discredit me further."

"I'm not sure that's possible, Sir." Thackeray mused aloud.

Paxton's eyes narrowed. "That will be all, Thackeray," he said, dismissing the butler with a wave of his hand.

Alone in his study, Paxton examined the card once more. Then, he picked up the phone and swiftly punched in the number provided. When the voice message recording played, he took a deep breath. "This is Lester Paxton," he said in a low tone, cupping his hand around the receiver. "I'm interested."

* * *

The rest of the week passed in a blur of assignments, calisthenics, biting sarcasm, screams, and laps. He no longer walked the halls of the academy; he ran them. They all did. They ran from building to building, they ran the parade grounds quadrangle, and they ran the track. Complaints and protests only incurred additional penalties. Bruce remembered the resigned stoicism he'd perfected in Arkham and did his best to maintain a poker face and keep his head down.

It didn't always help. Push-ups, laps, and essays continued to be assigned for any reason—and sometimes, it seemed, for no reason at all. Bruce had earned the class twenty push-ups on Wednesday when his watch alarm had inadvertently gone off. A loose thread on his uniform had garnered fifty. Unfortunately, he hadn't been the only one violating the dress code that day. When Norton later asked if they could meet a half hour before class on Thursday to inspect each other's uniform before classes began, he'd been only too happy to agree. When he'd arrived at the pre-arranged spot at 6:25 the next morning, Kotsopoulos, Ortega, and Laramie had already been there waiting.

As much as Bruce resented the communal penalties, he understood the logic behind them. Calhoun had stated it at the start. One way—whether it was the _best_ way was open to debate—to get the class to look out for each other was to make it clear that the consequences of their actions extended far beyond the individual. It wasn't enough for them to focus on getting themselves through the training; they had to be aware of each other, too. He'd also noticed that those who tried to stay apart from the others might—depending on the instructor—receive an individual penalty, but it was usually considerably heavier. Jandt had not turned in the punctuality essay. When pressed for his reason, he had reported that, as he hadn't been present when the essay had been assigned, he hadn't believed that it applied to him.

Calhoun hadn't bought it. "Drill Sergeant Severin not only apprised you of the assignment, he added to it, Cadet! You will complete a 1600-word essay on the subject tonight. For now? Out in the hall, drop and give me seventy-five." She turned to Bruce. "Cadet Wayne, supervise."

Jandt had flinched. "Why him?"

"You are in no position to question me, Cadet. For the record? Neither is your brother." She took a step forward. "You aren't in kindergarten, Cadet. If you don't like the way things are run here, don't go whining to the big scary city councillor," she glowered up at him, dropped the sing-song voice, and snapped, "because I'm not about to quiver in my boots and roll over. I gave you an order. You can carry it out or you can carry yourself out. At this point, I don't care which. Eighty-five push-ups. Cadet Wayne, watch him." And with that, she'd proceeded with the lesson as the two of them headed into the hallway.

Bruce realized that she hadn't penalized the class that time. She hadn't really penalized him, either. It wasn't as though he was missing out on vital information that he didn't already know. Assigning him to monitor Jandt wasn't an attempt to single him out, so much as it was taking the person who could best afford to miss the class and placing him where she needed him most.

Jandt hadn't seen it that way, of course. He'd done his eighty-five and gone back inside mumbling under his breath about how he'd never heard of a "brown-nosed bat" before. Bruce let it slide. He'd still been smarting over the fact that Calhoun wasn't going to be reading the essays, stating by way of explanation that she'd punished them, not herself! He knew it wasn't supposed to be fair, but that didn't make it an easier pill to swallow.

Firearms training, at least thus far, hadn't been a problem, but that was only because they were still working on gun safety, cleaning, and maintenance. According to the syllabus, they were due to begin target practice next week.

He was not looking forward to it.

* * *

Selina didn't have time to replace her cell phone until Saturday. The sales clerk at the kiosk was sympathetic and happy to show her a selection of models. Selina checked them over rapidly before making her decision.

"Good choice, Ma'am," the clerk enthused. "We have a choice of three covers currently in stock: hot pink, electric violet, or ultramarine blue. Of course, if you have another color preference, we'll be happy to order it for you and we do offer custom covers as well."

Selina smiled, privately thinking that, had it been up to her, she would have called the blue one 'lapis lazuli'. "No, I think one of these will do fine." She lifted Helena out of the stroller and held her up to the counter. "Let's see if we have the same favorite color," she murmured. Aloud, she said, "Which one should Mommy get, Helena? Pink, _purple_ ," she continued with emphasis, "or blue?" In a stage whisper, she added, "Pur-ple! Purrrr-ple!"

Gleefully Helena leaned forward and seized hold of the pink cover with one hand. A quick swipe with her other hand sent the lapis-ultramarine cover sliding across the glass countertop and onto the floor at the clerk's feet. The electric violet followed an instant later.

Selina's eyebrows shot up. "Looks like she's got a mind of her own," she said. "Sorry about the mess."

"No harm done," the clerk said. "I couldn't help noticing that you were interested in a different color. Did you want to take the purple after all?"

Selina looked at her daughter, who was now happily gnawing on a corner of the pink cover. She tugged it away. "No," she said ruefully, "I think I'd better pay for this one…"

* * *

That afternoon, the staff of the Gotham City Police Academy convened their first meeting of the term. There were several items on the agenda to deal with, before the topic shifted to the new troop of cadets.

"Commish is aware of the Jandt situation," MacInnes said shortly. "Unfortunately, politics are in play. Literally. So, for right now, the word is 'document'. And I mean everything. Because when Councillor Neal Jandt tries to raise a stink about how we kicked out his brother because we were afraid that he'd find out 'the truth'—"

"What truth?" Severin demanded. "That we don't kiss ass just because some cadet has a sibling in municipal politics?"

There was a general murmur of agreement.

MacInnes held up a hand for silence and got it. "Rumor has it Councillor Jandt is jockeying for the Commish's job. As you're all aware, that's one police posting that doesn't _have_ to go to someone from the ranks. Most cities, it goes to a career bureaucrat. We're usually luckier than that. Anyway, it appears that _Neal_ is siccing his kid brother on us in order to get the insider's view on what it's like to be a cop, from the ground up. And if he finds some sort of corruption going on, it gives big brother more leverage to agitate for the top spot. At least, that's how some people I know are seeing it." His upper lip curled scornfully. "It's also possible that Neal thinks his kid brother is a pain in the butt just like we do, and since the kid's too old for military school, he's hoping we'll shape him up. Either way, we're stuck with him for now."

"Oh, for…" Craigie rolled his eyes in disgust. "And just how did Alvin Jandt get through our vetting procedures? Kid's got a rotten attitude and not much else going for him."

MacInnes sighed. "He passed the polygraph, background check was clean, and he squeaked by on the physical. Panel split, but the hearing went in his favor."

"How many politicians sat on it?" Farnham asked _sotto voce_.

"Not important. He's ours for now. If he can't cut it, he'll be gone, but in case his brother tries to raise hell about it, we'll need that paper trail to document his shortcomings." He waited for further comments. When he didn't receive any, he nodded and went on.

"Next order of business: while we're not making a decision until next week, anyone got a suggestion for squad leaders?" He held up his hand again as Calhoun opened her mouth. "Before I hear them, I'm just going to state for the record that we have no plans to change to a rotation on this one." Calhoun closed her mouth again and MacInnes nodded his satisfaction. She raised the same issue every year. "We settle on two for the duration, business as usual." He smiled. "So, who're you thinking of?"

Calhoun smiled brightly. "Why not Jandt?" She waited for the laughter to die down. "I'm serious. There's a metric ton of paperwork involved with the post. Extra duties. A lot of responsibility. _Tedious_ responsibility. Very little credit. We all know the regular program is hard enough without adding to it."

"Give him enough rope and see if he hangs himself?" Fochs asked.

"Exactly."

"I was thinking Ortega, myself," Fochs admitted. "She's not afraid to ask questions, she knows the right time to ask them, and she doesn't rattle easily."

"She's taught women's self-defense classes," Severin rumbled. "If she needs to miss out on some of the physical training, she won't be behind. Plus, she's authoritative, takes control... I hear you about timing her questions. Wednesday she waited until after class to ask me for advice with one of the parade drills."

"How badly do we want to bore Wayne?" Craigie asked. "He already knows most of what we're teaching. Maybe we ought to give him more of a challenge."

Calhoun rolled her eyes. "Another political appointment."

There was general laughter.

"Hang on," Uminga said, motioning for quiet. The Emergency Response Driving instructor rarely spoke up at these meetings—she wouldn't be teaching her module for several weeks and rarely met the cadets this early in the program— but she had a way of drawing everyone's focus when she did. "Have you read his file? He does have the skills."

"Yeah," Severin snorted. "To lead half the class onto the range while the other half is setting up for target practice."

"Which wouldn't say much," Farnham commented drily, "for the judgment of the cadets holding the shotguns."

"He's been going to every class," Fochs pointed out, "including the ones he doesn't have to."

"He gets the work done and he hasn't been asking for special treatment," Calhoun admitted grudgingly. "And he knows the material. All of it," she added. "I made sure that the subject matter on the first assignments and pop quiz didn't overlap with the questions I included on Wayne's preliminary exam."

"I set him to drilling the weaker cadets," Craigie said. "Morale decision. I was worried about him making the others look sick in comparison if I kept him to the standard drills. Figured I'd let him work with the ones who couldn't keep up." He smiled. "He knew how to get higher performances out of them and he didn't have to scare 'em to do it."

"Kotsopoulos can handle the extra workload," Calhoun said slowly. "The other cadets seem to respect him. Given an opportunity to lead, he might rise to the occasion."

The discussion continued as more names were tossed out, bandied about, supported, and shot down. Finally MacInnes broke in. "Sounds like we have a number of viable choices. As always. Get a slate to me by Friday at oh-eight-hundred hours. I'll make my decision by the end of the day."

He consulted the agenda. "Next order of business…"

* * *

Paxton's cell phone rang at precisely 2:00, as promised. He picked it up. "Have you decided?" a voice whispered into his ear.

Paxton had been going back and forth on this since his initial conversation. He had to admit that, at the back of his mind, he was tempted. But, this wasn't his style. Particularly not with a court date dangling over his head. He was already in too deep. "I'm flattered you considered me," he said, using the genial tones he normally reserved for when he had to dismiss an employee or ten. "But no… I think I'll sit this one out."

There was a laugh on the other end. Then the whisper became a harsh hiss. "I… think otherwise," he rasped. "I think that you are going to do precisely as we discussed."

"Or what?" Paxton demanded. "Are you threatening me?"

There came a slow, mocking laugh. "As the old cliché has it, Mr. Paxton, this isn't a threat. It's a promise." The voice on the other end went silent for a moment. Then, there was a faint, slightly staticky noise, and a new, strangely-familiar voice emanated from the receiver. It took a moment for Paxton to realize that it was his own.

" _It's simple,"_ his voice said. _"At some point prior to the court date, you and Sharon will meet to discuss strategy. At a prearranged time, during your little tête-à-tête, there will be a noise from outside. You'll both look up and see Bruce Wayne glaring at you through the window—so make sure the blinds, curtains, or what-have-you are open. Fortunately, you'll have your cell-phone with you and you'll have the presence of mind to snap a photo or two. Make sure you have the time and date stamp. Maybe get some shots of Sharon posing by the window either before or after Mister... heh-heh… Mister... er... Face shows up, to establish that Wayne was at her house and she didn't just hire a photographer to snap a candid shot of him somewhere else and later_ _claim_ _it was at her house."_

Paxton's mouth went dry.

The other voice came back on the line. "I think the DA's office might be very interested in hearing this recording," it said smoothly. "Don't you?"

"What do you want? Money? How much?"

Laughter. "Lester, Lester. If I wanted _money_ , I'd siphon it out of your Cayman Islands account. No, it's not about money. It's about power."

Now it was Paxton's turn to laugh. "Power? I'm in disgrace, on indefinite leave of absence from my company, practically under house arrest, and facing a court battle. You should have come to me weeks ago."

"Would you have given me the time of day, then?"

Before Paxton could answer, the voice continued. "I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

Paxton spent a long moment staring at the receiver in horror before his trembling hand returned it to its cradle.

* * *

"Having fun?" Hush asked. "By the way, you didn't get my voice right. Close, though."

False Face turned around. "As a matter of fact, I am. I might not be on your level, Doctor, but that doesn't necessarily mean that crossing me is a good idea. Oh, and since Paxton's never heard you speak, I can't see how it matters for him, though I assure you, I'll improve before you need me to fill in for you."

Hush smiled. "Fair enough. But you don't really think this guy's going to be able to do anything to Wayne, do you?"

"Please," False Face said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not an idiot. This contest you have going seems like a good deal, but I think we both know that the one who punches the Bat's ticket is probably going to be Hatter, or Penguin, or Ivy… or, if we're going for irony, some punk who squeezes off a lucky shot with a zip-gun." He frowned. "Do gangs still use zip-guns, or am I dating myself?"

"I don't deal with gangs," Hush replied. "Not directly, at least."

"Same," False Face nodded. He put his cell phone into his pocket and sat down on one of the padded leather chairs. "Comfy," he said, smiling.

"Salvaged from my last practice." Hush bent down to the small bar fridge and pulled out a single-serve bottle of orange juice. "Want?"

"Not without vodka and I think I need my wits about me in present company," False Face returned. "You understand, of course."

Hush shrugged and closed the fridge. "Of course," he said, not sounding in the least offended. "So, if you're not trying for the grand prize, what was that phone call? Chain-rattling?"

"He reneged on an agreement," False Face said, a note of anger stealing into his measured tones. "From the way he's acted, I'm fairly sure that he would have thrown me to the wolves, once he had what he wanted from me." He glanced at his companion. "Thanks for posting my bail."

Hush made a deprecating gesture. "You've got your uses and you aren't dangerously ambitious. I admire that in a subordinate. So, what about Paxton?"

"I never liked torturing innocents," False Face said blandly. "With him around, it's moot." Under Hush's steady stare, he wilted. "Fine. I've lasted as long as I have in this city by knowing the best allegiances and by not sticking my neck out any farther than I need to. It keeps me relatively healthy, but it also, of necessity, puts me out of the running for schemes like your current plan to take out the Bat. On the other hand, I'm human and sometimes," his voice turned wistful, "I dream. And sometimes, the stars align and things work out. So, I suppose this is what it looks like when I dabble," he continued. "Use Paxton as my muscle, flabby though he may be, and… in all likelihood, he ends up in the same hole where he meant to stick me—and probably without bail, this time. Really," he smiled, "I think that's enough, both to satisfy me and to safeguard my reputation." There was a moment's silence. Then False Face gave a small sigh of resignation. "Don't think I didn't see you roll your eyes, Hush. I don't particularly care if my reputation is for being a small-time," he coughed, "businessman who usually gets nailed as soon as the police start reacting to the situation." His voice took on a darker note. "However, I don't want to be known as some schlepper who can be pushed around with impunity. Making an example of Paxton ensures that won't happen. And," he smiled again, "you never know. He might just get lucky and solve your Bat problem after all…"

* * *

He'd had to rearrange his sessions with Alex, thanks to the Academy. Since physical training was held in the afternoon, and since he would have had those classes on his schedule, even had he not opted to attend the full program, he'd had few qualms about explaining the situation to his psychiatrist.

Alex had simply rescheduled their appointment for Sunday this week, and promised to try to free up a block of time one evening per week, going forward. "Or would you prefer to keep two sessions for the next little while, as we have been?"

Bruce considered. It was pushing it to say that he enjoyed their meetings, or even looked forward to them. Nonetheless, they had come to serve as a safety valve for him. He could put up with a good deal of frustration and general idiocy, knowing that he had a pre-allotted time each week where he could vent about it, get everything out of his system, and keep going. He'd needed it during the vetting.

Now, though, under the Academy drill sergeants, he was doing his venting on the track and on the parade grounds. True, he'd been working on his own to get back in shape for months, but that hadn't compared to having someone push him to find another reserve of strength when he was sure he'd exhausted them all.

Dick had done a great deal to help him get back to his previous fitness levels. But, when he said that it was time to call it a day, Dick nearly always took him at his word. Severin and Craigie didn't. And for all that he cursed them in his thoughts, he couldn't help but notice that, because they kept pushing him, he kept pushing himself, in turn.

He hadn't felt this tired in a long time… but he hadn't felt this calm either. "I'm comfortable with going back to weekly sessions," he said firmly. "I don't think it'll pose any problems."

"Fine."

* * *

"They're cotton fibers," Dick said. He was sitting at a console in one of the satellite Bat-caves. Selina hovered nearby. "There's some of it in the vacuum cleaner bag as well, but just particles, not threads. It's the same fabric, though."

Selina frowned. "I don't mean to be ghoulish, but considering that there are dead skin cells and hair particles in dust, is there any chance of DNA analysis?"

"Sorry," Dick said with a reluctant shake of his head. "It's a good thought, but the problem is that dust is everywhere, indoors and out. The particles show up any time someone opens a window, or doesn't wipe their shoes before coming indoors. And this dust in particular seems to have originated in a public space, like a mall or an office building." He made a face. "Or maybe a hair salon. Those strands are from about fifty different people, and only one of them had a criminal record—for DUI. So, to sum up: yes, there's some human DNA in the dust, but there are too many overlapping signals. Until the technology improves, that's not going to help."

Selina sighed. "Figures. Just thought I'd ask."

"No problem," Dick grinned. "Our tech is pretty good. It's just not there yet. Give it a couple of years. On the other hand…" He lifted a pair of tweezers up, "this is a different story." His smile grew serious. "What do loose-weave cotton fibers mean to you?"

"What is this, a pop quiz?" She leaned in closer. "Wait. Is that another hair?"

"Stuck in the cotton fibers, yes. I'll get to that in a second, I was just wondering if anything's springing to mind, yet?"

"I don't know," Selina frowned after pausing a moment to consider. "I don't do that much stitch-work, unless leather's involved. Loose-weave… you mean like a mesh?" She didn't wait for an answer, but continued to muse aloud. "Well, it's not strong enough for netting, unless we're talking about butterfly nets. Do they use cotton for those, or is it more a nylon mesh like what Bruce uses for the aquarium?"

"Not sure. But I can tell you two interesting things about those fibers. One, another name for them would be _gauze_. And two, this hair probably comes from a redhead."

Selina took a step forward with an angry hiss. "Gauze?" she demanded with a frown. "As in _bandages_?"

"You got it. The hair comes from the base of a finger knuckle, unless I miss my guess. Well, possibly an arm, though knowing who it is, I doubt it. He likes trench coats. Anyway, even though this is brown, you know body hair is generally a few shades darker than whatever's on the person's head. Where'd you find the threads?"

"Snagged around a drawer handle," Selina said angrily. "Red hair. Gauze bandages. Argh!"

"Yep," Dick nodded. "I can't do a DNA trace on dust motes. Hair's a different story. Hush was in your apartment."

Selina's expression grew murderous. "Hush had better start running _now_. My whip has a _very_ long reach."

* * *

"There are eight fundamentals of handgun shooting," Farnham barked. They were sitting in a windowless classroom adjacent to the simulator where Bruce had been tested two weeks ago. Instead of regular desks, they sat at long tables, facing the whiteboard.

"First: stance. Know that this is for optimal conditions. When you're in the field—assuming you get that far—you'll find yourself forced to fire from a prone or kneeling position. You'll be behind cover. You'll be wounded and unable to stand. In these situations, you will not be able to maintain optimal stance. For now…" He surveyed the class, his face expressionless. Then he turned to the white board and hastily drew three concentric circles for a crude bulls-eye. "This is your target," he stated. Then, louder, "On your feet. Face square to the target, feet about shoulder distance apart. Put your stronger leg slightly back."

They hastened to obey.

As Farnham continued to walk them through the positioning, Bruce was horrified to find that his hands were sweating. This was ridiculous. They weren't even holding the guns, yet. There was absolutely no reason why this should be getting to him, not when he was still making slow but steady improvement in his drills in the cave. He _could_ do this—in controlled conditions, with no audience but the cave bats. But the easier it became, the less he wanted to.

"Cadet Wayne! This is a fight. Assume an aggressive posture!"

Bruce forced himself out of his reverie. "Sir, yes, Sir!"

Maybe he only imagined the collective sigh of relief, when Farnham went on with the lesson instead of assigning more push-ups.

* * *

He spent an extra hour in the cave that night, practicing with the handgun. His showing in the classroom was no better the next day. If anything, it was worse. Farnham's exasperation seemed to be increasing.

"I guess we all know now why you've never carried a gun in your previous… um… vocation," he drawled.

Nobody laughed. Extra push-ups and laps had been handed out too many times over the past week-and-a-half to cadets who reacted in any way when another of their number was singled out for any reason. Bruce still felt his cheeks burning.

On Farnham's command, the class rose as one and followed him into the simulator room. The simulation wasn't running; there were only blank screens and small stand on which a mock revolver rested. "Cadet Wayne," Farnham snapped, "Step forward, pick up the weapon and aim at the screen directly in front of you."

Bruce complied, struggling to maintain his composure.

"Hold that position, Cadet." Farnham drew closer until he stood next to him. "The object of this drill is to keep your aim steady." He held up a dime. "I'm placing this on your barrel," he said. "When I say go, I want you to carefully pull the trigger. If you fail to hold the weapon absolutely still, the coin will fall. Take as long as you need."

"Yes, Sir," Bruce replied, getting the response out without gulping. A small voice at the back of his head demanded to know who he thought he was fooling. By now, everyone knew that he…

"Correct your stance, Cadet. Elbows bent _slightly_."

Bruce acknowledged the instruction and made the adjustment.

"Better." Farnham slowly laid the dime on the barrel and stepped back. "When you're ready, Cadet."

Bruce swallowed. He gripped the gun firmly, knowing that if he held it too tightly, his hands would tremble. Gripping too loosely—if this weren't a simulation—would mean that he wouldn't be able to control his aim. He concentrated on holding the gun steady, on breathing, on maintaining his stance, and on not losing the coin. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. It was warm inside the simulator. He wondered absently whether the air was circulating properly. His shirt felt like it was stuck to his back. The last time his heart had pounded like this, he'd been undercover at a heavy metal concert during a drum solo. He closed his eyes and tried a meditation technique.

Farnham had told him to take as long as he needed. How long had he been standing here now? Three minutes? Five? Hard to know when every second felt like an hour. The gun was like lead in his two-handed grip. He forced himself to keep it steady. He took several long, deep breaths. Then, carefully and with agonizing slowness, he began to press the trigger. At least, he thought he was pressing it. He could feel it start to move backwards, feel the resistance, both internal and external. An irritated voice inside him told him to just pull the damned thing so he could drop the gun and end this torture—but if he dropped the dime, would Farnham make him repeat the exercise until he succeeded?

_Make you?_ The inner voice seemed to scoff at him. _You're Batman. Nobody can make you do anything against your will. Who cares what he expects of you? Walk away._

All true, and yet… _If I'm Batman, and nobody can make me do anything against my will… then it's my will… my choice… to succeed. It's my will to face my fears and not allow them to rule me. I_ _ **can**_ _do this… and… I have to… have to…_

…There was a click—impossibly loud—as he pulled the trigger past the point of resistance. His eyes flew open. The dime was still on the gun barrel. He exhaled with a rush and relaxed and the coin slid off the barrel to fall to the floor with a series of clinks.

"Not bad, Cadet," Farnham rumbled. "Pick it up." He held out his left hand for the coin. "Back in line. Cadet Kotsopoulos. Your turn."

Bruce obeyed, still trying to process what had just happened. He caught Peter Norton's quick grin as he passed by, but he was too stunned to acknowledge it.

* * *

"You okay?" Selina asked as Bruce gingerly sat down at the breakfast table on Friday morning.

"A bit stiff," he admitted, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You know, you didn't have to get up this early."

Selina laughed. "Ask me if I've been to sleep yet, darling," she said. "I was working last night, just got in about an hour ago. Figured I'd make breakfast and see you off before I turned in. I can collect Helena in the afternoon."

"It's good that Jim doesn't mind babysitting," Bruce said, as he buttered a slice of toast. "If it gets to be too much for him…"

"Then I can ask Cass or Tim. I'd ask Dick, but I know he's been busy lately, and having seen Barbara's defenses, let's just say I'm a bit concerned that Helena might go poking around and trip something before Barbara realizes she's mobile."

Bruce's mouth was full, but he nodded emphatically.

"Sorry you're working so hard," Selina mused, "but maybe there's a bright side. I mean," she grinned, "what with the gala tomorrow and all. It'll give you an excuse not to dance with every starlet and socialite clamoring for your undivided attention."

Bruce took another sip of coffee. "Selina… I know that when the gala's over and I go home, you're going to be here. What other excuse would I need?"

"Flatterer," she laughed. "Go on. Drag your tired old bones to the academy and I'll haul mine upstairs." She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll order dim sum for supper."

* * *

By the time that Craigie's class was nearing its end, Bruce felt like he was ready to collapse. The truth was, until now, he hadn't been running nearly as much as he had in the last two weeks. Callisthenics were one thing. Sustained distance running was something else again. And Craigie didn't always announce the number of laps he expected, making it all the harder for Bruce to pace himself.

"Sir!" An officer Bruce didn't know approached the drill instructor and saluted smartly. "Message from the captain, Sir." He held out a folded piece of paper.

Craigie took it, opened it, read it and looked out again on the two rows of cadets. His face betrayed nothing.

"Cadet Wayne, Cadet Ortega. Report to Captain MacInnes at sixteen hundred forty-five hours. In uniform. Dismissed." He raised his voice. "That goes for all of you."

Heading for the showers, Bruce glanced at his watch. He had precisely forty-three minutes. He quickened his pace.

"Cadet Wayne?"

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. Ortega trotted up, her dark bangs, plastered with perspiration, lay flat on her forehead. Bruce knew his had to be the same. "Cadet Ortega."

"Do you know what this is about?"

Bruce frowned. "No."

"Neither do I. I don't think it's disciplinary. If we… if I'd done something big enough to get…" she rolled her eyes. "I know this isn't like being sent to the principal's office. It just feels like it."

Bruce nodded. "To me, as well. I agree," he added. "If this were a disciplinary matter, I think we'd both have some awareness of the reason."

"Detective skills aren't helping?" she asked with a forced smile.

Bruce let out a breath. "There needs to be something to detect first."

She squared her shoulders. "We… we'll check each other over before we go in? If this _is_ disciplinary, I'll be damned if I go in there with my shirt buttoned wrong."

Bruce's lips twitched. "I think I could handle being damned," he admitted, "if it meant no more push-ups."

Ortega laughed. "We'd better move."

* * *

"Sir," Bruce announced, after knocking and being granted permission to enter, "Cadets Wayne and Ortega reporting as ordered, Sir."

MacInnes nodded curtly. "At ease, Cadets. Here," he said, as he handed each of them a slightly-bulging long white envelope. "Go ahead. Open them."

They obeyed. Bruce blinked in surprise as he pulled out a thin, navy-blue armband and a small silver-plated pin. The armband bore the letters "SL" embroidered in white thread.

"As you'll recall, I mentioned at orientation that we would appoint two squad leaders at the end of the second week of classes. Congratulations," he smiled. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pair of spiral-bound manuals. "When you report back to class on Monday," he said, handing one to each of them, "I expect you to understand your new duties thoroughly. If you have any questions or problems, refer them to Sergeant Fochs. If you have an issue that falls outside your authority, refer it to Sergeant Fochs. Do not bother Sergeant Fochs with any issues that fall within your authority. Questions?"

Bruce was dying to ask how he'd been chosen. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. As much as some of his instructors seemed to take special pleasure in telling him that he shouldn't expect preferential treatment, he'd noticed that they were quick to single him out for extra duties—like coaching the slower cadets in physical training, or supervising disciplinary action. He'd assumed that they'd been either trying to challenge him or pressure him to quit. Probably, that had been part of it. But maybe, they'd been testing him as well. Still, 'Why me?' wasn't the kind of question to ask the head of the academy. "No, Sir."

"Cadet Ortega?"

No need to wonder how _she'd_ been picked, Bruce thought. The second day of class, he'd observed her showing Norton how she'd mapped out the quickest route to get from one part of campus to another the night before. When they were ordered to line up, she was always at the head of the line, or close to it. If she knew an answer, she volunteered it. If she didn't, she admitted it. She seemed to be plugged in to whatever was happening on campus on any given day. And his wrist was still smarting from the _chin na_ hold she'd applied on Wednesday in Defensive Tactics.

"No, Sir."

"Dismissed."

"Thank you, Sir," Bruce said firmly. Ortega followed suit.

This time, the captain's smile was slightly warmer. "You're welcome," he replied. "Dismissed."

"I really do have a few questions," Ortega admitted, once they were in the hallway. "But I figured I should read the manual first and see if the answers are there. If they aren't…" she paused, "well, I'll have to bring them up with Sergeant Fochs anyway."

Bruce's lips twitched. "True."

"Um… did you want to go over this together? I mean over the weekend?"

"I don't know if…" Bruce started to refuse. He was managing fine on his own. Something about Ortega's body language checked him. "We need to learn this in addition to our other assignments," he stated flatly.

Ortega nodded. "Just when I think I've got everything under control… I mean, don't misunderstand. This is an honor and I'm sure I'll do fine, once I get the hang of it. But right now?" She sighed. "All I can think is that I promised my five-year-old that we were going to do something special this weekend, and she's too little to understand that sometimes promises get broken and…" her voice took on a fierce note. "…and I don't want her to!" She let out a breath. "Sorry to dump this on you, Wayne. It's not your fault. It's just… after four on a Friday and you're here and my husband... isn't. Anyway, I was hoping that maybe if we worked on the stuff together we'd get through it faster and maybe I'd still have time."

"It's fine," Bruce said, thinking. His playboy reputation plus a married woman… right when the press was sharpening its knives. There was some justification in gently refusing her, except that putting himself in physical danger to save Jim from Flass and shying away from a hit to his reputation really was hypocritical. Public opinion mattered, but it felt insensitive to walk away from someone asking for his help. Besides… this was an area he needed to study, as well.

Ortega shook her head. "I was going to take her to one of those indoor playgrounds. One of those places with ball pits and thousands of shrieking kids running through a three-story maze."

Bruce nodded, mentally filing the idea away for Helena. "Hopefully, you'll be able to. All right. Come over on Sunday. Bring your daughter if you like; I have a well-appointed nursery. A friend of mine and her twenty-month-old daughter are staying with me for the time being."

He considered. "As far as the propriety of the two of us being alone… we won't be. I'll make sure of that. Besides…" He tried to remember the staff schedule. Jim had hired the cleaning and maintenance crews through an agency when Bruce had been readjusting to life outside of Arkham. Until now, Bruce hadn't really concerned himself with their hours, but he believed… "The gardener comes on Sundays, as well as a couple of cleaners. They're usually done by early afternoon. Still, Jim—um… Commissioner Gordon will be around." He sighed. " _Former_ Commissioner Gordon, I mean."

Ortega nodded, smiling. "Yeah, I was a bit worried. I guess you're used to having the paparazzi hiding in your rose bushes?"

"Too thorny," Bruce deadpanned. "Now, if you'd said the boxwood, you would have had a point—at least, before I improved security. Don't worry. In a worst-case scenario, I do have security cameras in nearly all interior and exterior locations. If there _is_ gossip, that _should_ take care of it."

"Thorough," Ortega said approvingly. "Not that I really think we need to worry, but better safe than sorry."

"Agreed. We'll… see what we can accomplish in the afternoon and," he smiled, "I suppose if we needed to continue into the evening, I know of a few child-friendly restaurants in the area." He'd need to make a few phone calls and find out how many of them were still in business; he'd stopped going when Dick outgrew them. "You could take a supper break and come back; she can play some more, or if she gets tired, she can sleep and…"

Ortega was smiling. "That sounds great. It's been hard for her. Hard for both of us, but really for her. My husband's deployed overseas right now. NATO. Naval Operations. We expect he'll be home in time to see me graduate, but I'm just taking this as it comes. Anyway…"

As an officer approached, they both snapped to attention and saluted. The officer returned the salute and went on her way.

"Anyway, I'd better get home. See you Sunday, Wayne."

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay?" Selina asked as her fingers moved to straighten his bowtie. "I mean, if you backed out now, you could claim that they were working you too hard at the Academy and…"

"And it would be recognized for the excuse it is," Bruce said. "Besides, I was expecting media attention when I made my plans to attend known. If I'm encountering more members of the press than usual, I'll deal." He sighed. "I appreciate Lois taking the time to warn me. I'll be careful. I'm used to that."

Selina nodded slowly. "I don't like it, but I understand. Just be careful out there. Cornelius Stirk does his victims the courtesy of killing them first. The press could eat you alive."

Bruce's lips twitched.

"I have to say, that tux looks great on you. Looks like the Academy's finally taught you how to dress yourself properly."

"It's a custom tux, Selina. It's not that hard." He did have a certain amount of pride in the shine on his shoes, however.

"But you still can't tie a bowtie."

Bruce sighed. "It's not part of a Class A uniform."

Selina frowned. "That's something I'm not clear on. You wear a Class A uniform in the classroom, a Class C for physical training… I think you said a Class D for the firing range? What happened to Class B?"

"Class A is the formal dress uniform," Bruce explained. "We're required to wear that to all academic classes unless and until instructed otherwise. So far, nobody has instructed otherwise. The Class B uniform doesn't involve a tie and the shirt is short-sleeved. Supposedly, I'll need it later in the program, but I haven't been told when. And yes, Class C is for physical training and Class D for the range. _Except for when Severin had us doing calisthenics on Day One_ , he remembered. He brushed at his tux absently, checking for stray hairs.

Selina looked on, amused. "You've never been this fastidious before."

"I've never had to do fifty push-ups if my hair wasn't properly parted before."

She laughed. "You've got to be exaggerating."

"Not really," Bruce replied. "Not by very much."

"Yeesh," Selina shook her head. "Okay. There's the door. I guess Jim's champing at the bit. I'll let you go." She kissed him and gave him a little push toward the door. "Oh, and what time is this Cadet Ortega coming over tomorrow?"

"Um… " Bruce grabbed his car keys off the night-table. "I think thirteen hundred hours."

"One, it is. Have fun."

As he exited the bedroom, Bruce's smile faded. Despite his assurances to Selina, tonight was likely to be anything _but_ fun…


	22. 21. Walking and Weaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Gala time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Everybody's Here" written by Jim Beaver, Chris Dubois, and Brad Paisley. Recorded by Brad Paisley on his American Saturday Night album (Arista, 2009).
> 
> A/N: According to the Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City, Bristol Township is divided into South Darby, Crest Hill, Gotham Heights, and Brentwood. Wayne Manor is located in Crest Hill.

_I'm still breathing and my heart's still beating_  
I might as well start living again  
And so I threw on a shirt  
Put on a jacket went out to meet some friends  
And now I'm acting like I couldn't be better  
Like I've always got this smile on my face  
Walking around weaving through the crowd  
And trying not to look out of place

— _Jim Beaver, Chris Dubois, Brad Paisley, "Everybody's Here"_

**Chapter 21—Walking and Weaving**

"No chauffeur?" Jim asked as he slid into the passenger seat of the Town Car. "For that matter, you aren't taking the limo, I notice."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. " _You_ hired the staff. Is this the first time you're noticing that you didn't include a driver?" He turned his key in the ignition. "Frankly, I prefer doing my own driving at night, so I'm just as glad you didn't. As far as a limo? It _would_ have almost demanded a chauffeur. I don't see how it matters how we get there," he added abruptly, as he put the car into drive.

"They won't be watching for you to pull up? The media, I mean."

Bruce hit the remote to open the gates. "I'm sure they will. In the old days, Alfred would have let me out in front of the main doors and I would have put on the fop act and smiled my way past. I'm not playing the fop tonight. Most of the non-socialite guests at these affairs bypass the red carpet and just drive into the underground garage."

"Yeah," Jim nodded. "That's what I normally used to do." He chuckled. "Trying to play the working stiff in your off hours too, now?"

Bruce smiled. "If I use the west entrance, I'll even be able to avoid the valet parking." He gave Jim a quick look. "Unless you _want_ me to park a couple of blocks away and we'll just walk into the crowd of reporters and stage an impromptu press conference." His lips twitched. "You might find it hard to get through the mob until they're done with me, but if you'd prefer…"

"The parking garage will be fine," Jim said tartly. "I guess it's as good a way as any to avoid the media frenzy until we're indoors."

Bruce smiled. "Exactly." He shook his head. "I'm not looking forward to this either. I've pretty much managed to avoid the media spotlight for the last few months. I knew that, in making a public appearance, I'd be leaving myself open to this sort of attention, but I don't mean to actively pursue it."

"Ah," Jim nodded. "But if they approach you…"

"I'm not going to hide."

"Got it."

"They'll probably let you get past them, though."

Jim gave him a hard look. "You didn't seriously suggest I leave one of my best friends to the wolves and run away to save my own neck, did you?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I appreciate the sentiment, but don't you think you're going a little bit overboard?"

"No," Jim shot back. "Not in the least."

Bruce sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

* * *

In the coat check room of Gotham's Ritz-Marlton Convention Center (connected to the historic Ritz-Marlton hotel across the street by an award-winning sky bridge), a curiously blank-faced attendant accepted the attendees' outerwear in silence, placing each coat on a wooden hanger with the Ritz-Marlton logo emblazoned in gold. Before shelving each hat, however, the attendant reached under his counter and removed a small flat transmitter from a ready basket. He attached the transmitter to the inside lining of each hat, where it would go virtually undetected…

* * *

"We don't really need to wear our coats inside, do we?" Jim asked, as Bruce pulled into an empty parking bay. At Bruce's puzzled look, he sighed. "Call it paranoia, but I'm always worried there'll be a mix-up and I'll end up with someone else's. Probably," he added wryly, "one with nuclear launch codes tucked into an inside pocket. If keeping my coat in the car will help me avoid becoming an international target, I'm all for it." He started to smile, but stopped when he saw that Bruce seemed to be taking him seriously.

Finally, the younger man shed his own coat and hat and folded it neatly on the driver's seat. "Better safe than sorry," he muttered.

"I was joking," Jim said, reaching for his cane.

"This is Gotham."

"Point."

* * *

Dick and Barbara were waiting in the foyer when Bruce and Jim emerged from the convention elevator. Their approach was blocked as a sharp-eyed reporter raced forward with a cry of, "Mr. Wayne!"

Eyes turned and feet stampeded as a mob of reporters converged in their direction. Dick glanced up and caught Bruce's eye, mutely questioning whether to interfere. A slight head-shake on Bruce's part checked him. "You sure?" he mouthed.

That garnered an even slighter nod. Then Bruce pasted on a bland society smile, spread his hands wide at chest height, and began fielding questions.

Dick waited, feigning patience as his jaw set. Barbara took hold of his sleeve. "Think he can handle it?" she asked.

Dick considered. "Probably. But I'm hanging around, just in case. You can go in."

"It's not like they're going to give away our table, FBW," Barbara grinned. "Besides, they've got _my_ dad cornered too. We'll wait." She held up her smart phone. "Of course, if you think they need a quick escape…" Her tone altered to brisk professionalism. "Say the word and the sprinkler system has a freak malfunction, drenching everyone in the area. Once we're safely inside the main hall, of course."

Dick sighed. "It's a nice idea. Don't."

"I knew I wouldn't get to have fun tonight," Barbara said as she slid the phone back into her beaded evening bag with a pout. When she looked up, she saw Bruce and her father making their way slowly toward them. "Oh good," she said brightly. "I was wondering if you'd be able to tear yourselves away from your adoring public."

Bruce shot her a look that could have withered trees.

Barbara grinned back.

* * *

Inside the main hall, Bruce took a moment to catch his breath and request a club soda when an attentive server appeared at his elbow.

"I'm so sorry," the young man responded, while Jim helped himself to a glass of red wine with a polite thank you. "I'll be back with that in a moment."

"You'd be excused if you wanted something stronger," Jim rumbled after the server left. "Especially under the circumstances."

Bruce shook his head. "I doubt I have much tolerance for the stuff," he admitted. "Somehow, I don't see a benefit to ingesting anything that might cloud my judgment tonight—Careful!" He reached out and caught hold of a woman as she stumbled forward. Her glass tilted and the drink spilled to the floor, narrowly missing her gown.

The flustered woman gasped. "Thank you," she said, her words tumbling over each other. Her face relaxed in a rueful smile. "I knew I shouldn't have worn these heels. I'm lucky I just turned my ankle instead of breaking it. Did I spill anything on you? I'm so sorry."

"No harm done," Bruce replied graciously. She looked familiar, though he was finding it difficult to place her at the moment. "Ms…"

"Van Carten," she replied. "Isabella Van Carten."

He recognized her now. Back when he'd first returned to Gotham, before the Mission had taken over his life, her brother had been one of his infrequent squash partners at the club and she'd often been one of a small group of spectators sitting at a shaded table, sipping tea and chatting with friends, while looking up every now and again to applaud a play. While he still knew Sidney Van Carten socially, he wasn't sure he'd ever exchanged more than polite greetings with Isabella before. From what he could recall, she'd taken some time off after completing her undergraduate studies to find herself in the Far East, before settling down to pursue post-graduate work in Switzerland. He did some rapid calculations. She was probably in her early thirties by now, even if she did look about ten years younger.

"Bruce Wayne," he smiled.

Isabella blinked. Then her face settled into a smile of its own. "Oh, of course. I'm so sorry. I should have recognized you. It's just been… how many years?"

"Too many," Bruce smiled. "And again, no harm done." He glanced toward the small puddle on the floor and gently pulled her away as another tuxedo-clad server approached with a cloth napkin to mop up the spill. He turned to her. "Um… may I refill your glass?" he asked, looking about for a server. The room was growing more crowded by the second and the black and white uniforms of the attendants blended in far too easily with the formalwear of the patrons.

"Please." She took a step and smiled self-consciously. "Er… I think I need to sit down."

"Your ankle?"

She shook her head. "My heel. I think I snapped it off." She smiled wickedly. "Do you think I can get by if I slip off the other shoe and walk about in my stocking feet all night? Or would it be… _scandalous?_ "

"Well," Bruce pretended to consider the matter as he might have done in days past while he was waiting for the opportunity to don a different suit entirely, "I'm sure that this evening will be exciting enough that people will have other things to occupy themselves with than who wore what shoes… or any shoes at all. On the other hand, it might depend on whether you trust your dance partners not to step on your toes, mightn't it?"

Isabella laughed. "Oh, Bruce, I didn't realize how much I missed you," she said, twining her arm with his. "But you must remember," she added as they hobbled off, "that no matter how exciting the evening is, there's always going to be some empty-headed little twit with nothing better to do than remember who wore what and whether they'd worn it before, and whether the shoes and bag matched, and…"

The others looked on as Bruce and Isabella drifted out of earshot. "That didn't take him long," Barbara remarked.

"At least he's found someone he can talk to," Jim said. "I always felt so out of place at these things. I was actually thinking that not having to attend anymore was one of the upsides of retirement."

"Jim!" a warm voice exclaimed. "How wonderful to see you here! And is this your daughter?"

Jim turned. "Evening, Councillor," he returned, his voice carefully neutral. "Dick, Barbara… I'm not sure if you know Councillor Jandt…"

* * *

The cream-upholstered sofa lounge seat was tucked away in a corner near several large potted ferns. It wasn't precisely secluded, but it was somewhat semi-private.

"I heard about your…" Isabella looked away. "…illness," she concluded in an undertone. "It's good to see you're okay now." She shook her head. "I couldn't believe it," she continued at a normal volume. "I mean…" she dropped her voice to a whisper. "…Arkham? When I was in my junior year at Berkeley," now her words seemed to tumble out over each other, "my room-mate needed to leave in the middle of the semester for a rest. Overwork and stress, you know. Her parents found her a lovely retreat near Palm Beach. Sunshine, near the beach… a garden… I don't see why you couldn't have had the same. I mean, how could anyone have thought that Arkham was the right place for a person like you?"

"I had a private room," Bruce said lightly, hoping she'd change the subject. "It wasn't so bad."

"But weren't you nervous about being locked up with all those dangerous criminals?"

Bruce sighed. "At first, I was on too much medication to be nervous about anything," he said. "By the time they reduced the dosage, I'd already been there for a few months without incident, so it didn't worry me as much as it might have." He coughed. "Anyway, that's in the past, now."

Isabella nodded. "And I think I heard something about you joining the police department?"

"That's right," Bruce smiled.

Isabella's eyebrows shot up. "That's a little bit daring, isn't it?"

"Daring?" Bruce wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"Well, yes. I mean, I know you've always been friendly with Mr. Gordon, but I didn't think you'd carry it so far that you'd want to follow in his footsteps. It's… not something one often hears of in our circles."

Bruce suppressed a twinge of irritation. "I guess we don't always move in the same circles," he said blandly.

"Oh, please don't misunderstand, Bruce. Of course, I have the utmost respect for Gotham's finest. But if you want to make a dent in criminal activity, couldn't you simply swing some financing for prison reform? You don't need to get so hands-on."

He sighed inwardly. He hadn't wanted to talk about Batman more than he had to tonight—and given the amount of media representatives currently paying attention to him, he'd accepted that he was going to have to. On the other hand, Isabella Van Carten didn't need to act as though she were this oblivious. Pretending he had no idea about Batman was one of _his_ talents. "If you think back," he said, still keeping his tone light, "I think you'll find I've been hands-on for some time now. I'm just not wearing a costume anymore."

Isabella frowned. "Pardon?"

An eyebrow shot up. Could it be that she really didn't know? That made no sense. The same news reports that had talked of his application to the GCPA had also mentioned Batman. But if she really didn't, he wasn't sure that he wanted to set her straight. "Never mind," he said. "Say, is that 'Did You Ever'? Would you care to dance?" He smiled graciously. "I promise to do my best not to step on your feet."

Isabella was still frowning. "Wait. You mean… you still think…?" She got up hastily. "I'm sorry. I… I'd better go mingle. Lovely to see you again, Bruce."

"Isabella? What's…?"

She was already weaving her way through the crowd. Bruce shook his head and carried his empty club soda glass toward the bar, hoping for a refill. As he crossed the hall, he heard Isabella's voice again.

"…And he still thinks he's Batman. It's so true what they say about how those places release their patients as soon as they're no longer dangerous, even if they haven't been cured yet!"

He winced.

"Fried calamari, Sir?" a server approached with a silver tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Bruce shook his head. "Sorry. I haven't got much of an appetite right now," he mumbled, as he took off in search of his family.

* * *

"…And if I were heading up law enforcement," Councillor Jandt was warming to his topic. The problem, Jim thought acidly, was that he'd been warming to his topic for a good twenty minutes and hadn't yet hit it. Worse, the man seemed to be more confused than he had any business being on where police powers ended and the courts took over. To say nothing of correctional services—he'd already stated that he'd ensure that criminals put behind bars stayed there. It was a fair thing to say—and almost certain to make good copy for tomorrow's headlines and current events blogs—but again, it didn't fall under the GCPD's bailiwick. He looked around and saw Bruce scanning the crowd.

"Excuse me, Councillor," he interrupted. "Bruce, over here!"

"Ah," Jandt smiled benignly, "the richest police cadet in the world." His tone was good-humored, with none of the mockery or sarcasm that would have made his listeners bristle. "Mr. Wayne," he continued, extending his hand for a hearty shake. "It's a pleasure to meet someone who's truly seen the seamy underbelly of this city."

"Like none of us have," Barbara muttered angrily.

"Not worth it," Jim said softly. "Let the blowhard blow."

"I believe you know my younger brother, Alvin," Jandt continued, gesturing vaguely toward the bar, where Cadet Jandt, who had exchanged his Class A uniform for a three-button single-breasted tuxedo for the evening, was handing a drink to a dark-haired woman whose smooth chignon was graced by a white hothouse bloom. Alfred, Bruce recalled, had often said that the three-button tuxedo was an affront to fine formalwear. Bruce hadn't been able to understand why, but then, Alfred's fashion sense had always been far better than his.

"Yes, we're both at the Academy this term," Bruce said easily. "Though I'm trying not to dwell on the GCPA this evening. You understand, of course, Councillor."

"Call me Neal. Please," he returned jovially. "So, what was it about this event that finally coaxed you out of that stately manor in Crest Hill?"

Bruce smiled. "Well, Neal, I suppose I thought it was time."

"Ah. Well, to hear Alvin tell of it," he draped an arm around Bruce's shoulders and began to steer him toward a small knot of men, some of whom Bruce recognized as other municipal politicians, "I can understand why you might not want to discuss the Academy during your off-time. Still, are you familiar with the plans I have to revolutionize the GCPD…?"

Dick glanced at Barbara. "Want to go outside for a bit?"

"I did a few minute ago," Barbara admitted. "It was getting a bit warm in here. But now, it's like this mass of hot air just… moved right on past."

Jim held up a warning finger, but couldn't quite hide a smile as he did so.

* * *

It was nearly a full half hour before Bruce was able to get clear of Jandt and his cronies. Any longer and he might have told the councillor what he could do with his half-baked ideas. Or started snoring. One of the two. He'd no sooner rejoined the others when Lucius stormed up, looking grim.

"I've just had a look at the seating arrangements for the meal," he said tersely. "We may have a problem."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Define 'problem'."

The CEO pursed his lips. "Picture a grid of nine tables; three by three. Our table is in the middle of the second row… let's call it 'Table 5'. The tables making up the corners of this grid—those would be Tables 1, 3, 7, and 9—are comprised of members of the media. Some are with mainstream news and society outlets; some are bloggers and other social media types."

Jim let out a low whistle. "At eight people per table… you're saying that there are 32 reporters?"

Lucius shook his head. "Some are reporters. Some are photographers. Some are guests; spouses, significant others, dates and the like. I'd actually be a bit more concerned about Tables 2, 4, 6, and 8, though."

There was a moment's silence. Dick broke it. "Fine. If someone has to ask it, I will: Why? Who's sitting at those tables?"

Lucius sighed. "Some of them are also members of the media. I recognized the names Vicki Vale and Charlotte Rivers. Some of the other names include Veronica Vreeland, Portia Storme—"

"Lucius," Bruce interrupted, "Are you saying that…?"

"If your surname were 'Banner', I'd say someone was betting on your making a fashion statement with green skin and purple pants tonight." His expression darkened. "I will get to the bottom of this, and someone's head _will_ roll later, but for right now…"

Bruce nodded. "I'm about to eat dinner surrounded by an equal mix of the media and my ex-girlfriends."

Jim took a deep breath. "You sure you don't want something stronger than club soda?"

* * *

Thanks to Lucius's warning, Bruce was able to prepare himself mentally for the ordeal ahead. During his two years in Arkham, he had been forced to get used to being under constant observation. He hadn't enjoyed it—and he was out of practice, to boot—but he was fairly sure could withstand an hour or two of close scrutiny. That didn't mean he had to like it.

Dick found him standing on the terrace outside the banquet hall, oblivious to the chilly night air. "Want me to see if we can get our table changed?"

Bruce frowned at the question. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass," he snapped in a voice that carried no farther than his son's ears.

Dick raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Bruce, just because you _can_ handle the situation doesn't mean you have to."

Bruce sighed. "I know. However, I think we can both recognize the purpose of this ploy." His expression darkened as he saw Jim walking toward them. At least Barbara seemed to have enough sense to stay out of the cold.

"Yeah," Dick retorted. "To rattle you and catch you messing up in public in a way that's going to get your face plastered on every front page in the country, to say nothing of the social media."

"And when it doesn't happen—" He stepped aside when Jim would have put a hand on his shoulder. To a casual observer, it would have appeared that he'd been intending to move even before Jim's approach. From the look on the former commissioner's face, however, he wasn't fooled.

"If it does—" Dick continued.

"It won't," Bruce said with finality. "It won't because I know what they're doing; I know why they're doing it, and I'm _not_ going to let them win." He glowered. "And I'm not about to go running scared either. Let them watch. Why should I care?"

"Except you do care," Jim pointed out.

Bruce gave him a hard look. "That's hardly relevant. If the purpose of this exercise is to attempt to demonstrate that I can't handle a stressful dinner and that I'm probably not able to handle the stress of running the company, I doubt that running away is going to help my case."

Jim shook his head. "You know the difference between a clever person and a wise one? A clever person can work his way out of a problem that a wise person would never get himself into in the first place. Bruce, maybe taking the easy way out _is_ the smartest thing to do."

"Is that how you think the media will spin it?"

Jim looked away.

"That's what I thought." He forced a smile. "Come on. Let's get this over with. And…" He was about to tell them to let him know if they thought his control was slipping after all, but then he thought better of it. He didn't need them hovering any more than they already had been. "…And I appreciate your having my back," he finished. "But I need to know I can handle this. It's not about proving it to them. It's about proving it to me." He tried for a lighter tone. "Try not to interfere?"

Both men nodded reluctantly.

* * *

Maybe he only imagined the conversations trailing off and the faces turning in his direction as he strode casually to his table. And when he sat down, it was just barely possible that it was paranoia that made him think that every eye in the vicinity was still trained on him. He doubted it, though. Particularly since, as the conversation started up again, words and phrases like "Arkham… Think it's safe? Police academy… Are you serious?" reached his ears.

He tried to concentrate on eating the first course, focusing on the plate before him, knowing that if he looked up, it would be to see his family—or worse, Lucius and _his_ family—checking to see how well he was coping. When he heard Lucius ask Dick about his current work for Sal Fiorini, he began to relax. If they were talking among themselves, then they weren't paying as much attention to him. And as for the other tables… He did his best not to think about them and kept his attention on his appetizer. When he set down his fork, he had no recollection of what he'd eaten or how it had tasted, but he still smiled and thanked the server who appeared at his elbow to whisk it away.

The band struck up a waltz and several couples drifted toward the empty floorspace between the tables and the podium, but nearly as many remained seated, Bruce among them. If the plan had been to prevent him from finding a dancing partner, he had to admit that it was a success. He was hardly about to approach the surrounding tables and he realized that he no longer had any idea which women were single and available. Alfred would have briefed him ahead of time on which women were newly married… or newly separated or divorced. He wasn't about to approach one of the other tables and try to look surreptitiously for a wedding ring. He wished Selina were here. He wished that she'd been in the country when he'd made up his mind to attend this event, or that he'd known she'd be back for it.

On the other hand, he thought, as Jim excused himself to get up from the table, he was also relieved that she wasn't with him tonight. With the scrutiny that he was under tonight, having her here would have been the equivalent of painting a target on her back.

"Mr. Wayne?" A pudgy man in his late thirties slid into the seat that Jim had vacated. "I'm Simon Lippman with the _Gotham Gazette_. I was wondering whether I could ask you some questions?"

Bruce smiled, even as he sighed inwardly. "Simon," he said, "Um… can I call you 'Simon'? Look around. I'm here with family and friends, looking to enjoy myself and do a bit of good for Somerset General—not necessarily in that order. Suffice to say I'm not about to hold a press conference tonight. But if you'd care to contact PMWE's media relations office," he glanced over toward Lucius and smiled more broadly, "I'm sure we can set up an appointment at a later date."

"So you're returning to PMWE?" Lippman persisted.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "I've been president emeritus for quite a few months, Simon. Granted, I haven't had much reason to go into the office, but I'm not sure it's accurate to call this a 'return' when my association with the company never ended. And that's all I care to comment on this evening."

"But—"

"Mr. Lippman," Lucius interrupted. "I believe Mr. Wayne has made his position clear. If you contact our media relations office in the morning, we'll do our best to accommodate you. For now," his tone hardened, "enjoy the gala."

* * *

At a different table, Councillor Jandt observed his younger brother with growing annoyance. "Making up for lost time?" he asked acidly as he watched Alvin down his fourth shot of the evening—that he knew about.

He caught his sister-in-law's frown, but ignored it. He knew that she was right: the more he bothered Alvin about his drinking, the more Alvin drank. However, ignoring the problem wasn't making it go away, either. He was fairly sure that Alvin had been sober since starting the Academy—more than could be said for the night _before_ he'd started. But tonight, in a social setting, Alvin was still acting like this was a university pub crawl.

"I can handle it," Alvin snapped.

"So you say." When his younger brother rolled his eyes, Neal felt his temper rise. "Look, there's an election coming up and I don't need your behavior embarrassing me. If you can stop when you want to, stop now. If you can't, get help."

"I don't need anyone's help," Alvin insisted.

"Hey. Lower your voice. People are watching."

"Yeah," Alvin sneered. "Yeah, they are. But are they watching me relax or are they watching you lose control? See, Neal… nobody really cares what I do. Sure, I'm the stupid kid brother screw-up, but they already figured that out last election. You're the one who pretends everything's under control. So if I make an ass of myself tonight or if you lose your cool and storm out of here… who do you think is going to make the headlines tomorrow?" He laughed. "You know what your problem is, Neal? You just can't accept that the world doesn't revolve around you. You're act like you're so worried about what everyone's going to think about you… when the real truth is, you're terrified that they're not thinking about you at all."

"That is enough!" Neal hissed.

"Yeah, you're damned right it is." He turned to his wife. "Get your coat, Michelle. We're leaving." He looked across the table. "Try to get your husband to loosen up, Trisha."

Trisha Jandt ignored him.

"Alvin," Michelle ventured, "I was hoping for at least one dance this evening. Could we?"

Alvin considered. "Sure, why not? C'mon, babe."

Once they were out of earshot, Trisha looked at her husband. "I told you not to antagonize him," she murmured.

"Did you tell him not to antagonize me?" Neal replied in an equally soft undertone.

"No. If I had, he would have been worse." She let out a long breath. "At least he always lets Michelle drive when he's like this."

Neal nodded. "At least."

* * *

The music finally stopped and the diners moved back to their tables in preparation for the soup course. Barbara leaned across Dick to say in an undertone, "It's kind of nice to see I wasn't missing much."

Bruce tilted his head, questioning.

"I used to wonder about some of these society affairs," Barbara admitted. "What it was like attending them. Okay," she grinned, "I admit it. I was jealous that you got to go to all of them and sorry you never got to stay."

"If you'd said something," Bruce said, "I could have made some arrangements. Particularly on nights when Dick had to study and I needed another set of eyes."

"And once the tongues started wagging about Bruce Wayne and the commissioner's daughter," Jim broke in, "I might have had to step in. And, in retrospect," he added, "it's probably a good thing I didn't. Can you imagine how the tabloids would have reacted to your dating the father _and_ the son, Barbara?"

His eyes narrowed, as he saw one of the servers ladle soup into a bowl belonging to one of the reporters at a nearby table.

Barbara made a disgusted sound. "I don't know what's worse; hearing you say it or knowing you're right. Anyway, if most of those affairs were like this one, I think I liked the daydreams more than the reality."

Dick had caught a change in Gordon's expression. "What?"

Feeling the other eyes at the table turn to him, he hesitated. "Maybe nothing. Maybe not. But I thought I saw…"

"Get your coat, Michelle." Jandt stormed past their table, his wife a few steps behind.

"Alvin, we don't have to…"

"Michelle, now!"

Bruce assessed the situation. Jandt was angry and he'd probably had too much to drink, but it didn't look like a situation requiring intervention. Nor did it look like a good time to walk over to say 'Hello'.

"Shrimp bisque, Sir?" A server interrupted his calculations.

Bruce drew his thoughts back to the dinner, nodded and smiled. "Please."

As he was setting the bowl before him, the server suddenly pitched forward, spilling the soup onto the tablecloth and into Bruce's lap.

Cameras clicked and flashbulbs exploded from the surrounding tables, as a chorus of laughter swelled up. Bruce fought his instinctive urge to leap up in response to a perceived attack, willed his fingers to unclench, and focused on remaining calm. There was no threat. There was no danger. There was only a clumsy server. He relaxed.

"Oh, my gosh!" a voice he hadn't heard in years exclaimed. "Bruce, are you all right?"

Bruce took mental inventory. The soup had been hot, but not hot enough to scald. "I'm fine, Vicky," he said, pasting on a smile that he hoped was reassuring. "Accidents happen."

"I'm so sorry, Sir!" the server exclaimed, trying sop up the mess on Bruce's lap with a linen dinner napkin. "This has never happened before."

A woman wearing a black swallowtail jacket with a matching skirt and conservative white blouse came rushing up. "Mr. Wayne! Are you injured? I'm so sorry that this has happened and of course we'll have your tuxedo cleaned at our expense. If there's any way we can make this up to you—"

"No harm done," Bruce shook his head. "Accidents happen."

"Especially when someone takes a five hundred dollar bribe to ensure they do," Jim drawled. "Mind you, I'm not sure it still counts as an accident in that circumstance."

"What?" The maitre d' turned aghast toward the server.

"I didn't!" he gasped. "I would never!"

Jim shook his head. "Come on, son. I saw you take the money. I even saw Ted Caddlecott count it out. Ten fifty dollar bills, right?"

"They were hundreds." A hand flew to his mouth. "I mean…"

The maitre d' looked from the server to Jim and then back to the server. "My office. Now." She turned to Bruce. "I am ashamed that this has happened, Mr. Wayne. The Ritz-Marlton will cover your dry cleaning bill, and your next visit to either this convention center or the hotel will be free of charge. Again, you have my sincere apologies."

"Quite all right," Bruce said, conscious of the number of people watching the drama.

Vicky cast a furious glance toward the offending table, and the Gotham Post's society columnist. "I don't believe this," she muttered. "You're a pig, Ted." She turned back to Bruce. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Bruce nodded. "Hi, Vicky. It's been a while."

"Yeah. I-I was going to try to chat you up later in the evening, but I think we should maybe postpone it for a better time. You look good," she smiled. "Really good. Or at least you did before you started… er dripping."

Bruce smiled. "Another time, then."

"You are o—"

Bruce cut her off. "I'm fine. Really. But call me later in the week, if you'd like."

"Okay." She retreated to her seat. Bruce noted that she pointedly sent another nasty look toward Caddlecott's table, as she sat down again.

"I don't know about you," Dick said, "but this whole thing is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Babs had the right idea. Let's go."

"Dick, it's fine."

"Right this second? Yes. You're right. They wanted a reaction from you and they didn't get one—at least nothing out of the ordinary for the situation. If you stick around for the rest of the night with a lap," he looked Bruce up and down for a moment, "and shirt full of shrimp bisque, it's going to _be_ out of the ordinary, and not in a good way. Come on. 'Wayne leaves gala early after waiter paid to spill soup on his tux' isn't good copy for the morning news. Pics of you walking around in a soiled tux like you couldn't care less, on the other hand? No point in you being a laughingstock. Let's just go."

Bruce glanced around the rest of the table, not missing Lucius's short approving nod.

"It's up to you," Jim said. "But are you really enjoying yourself too much to cut the evening short?"

"No," Bruce admitted. "Let's just go out to the front plaza for a few minutes and give the tux a chance to dry." Afterwards, he could take the elevator from the foyer down to the parking garage without having to re-enter the banquet hall—something which would have been unavoidable, had he opted for the terrace garden behind the convention center.

* * *

"I get enough idiots digging into me every day at the Academy," Jandt exclaimed as he made his way outside, ignoring the small knot of people in one corner of the plaza. His coat hung open unbuttoned and he tried to do it up without relinquishing the cap he had tucked under his arm.

"The valet parking is this way," Michelle said, steering him in the opposite direction.

Jandt spun about angrily. "I knew that. I _said_ , 'I knew that,'" he repeated, when she didn't answer. He was still trying to button the coat. "Oh, the hell with it," he said finally, placing his cap on his head and fumbling with the buttons as Michelle handed the car keys to a waiting attendant.

As they waited for the valet to return with the car, Jandt continued to rant under his breath.

"Finally," Michelle said when the car pulled up.

The valet exited and held out the keys.

Michelle started to reach for them and started in surprise as Jandt snatched them away, his eyes strangely flat.

"Alvin!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing? You know you can't drive now."

Jandt ignored her. He shouldered past the valet, got into the car, and shut the door.

Michelle looked about helplessly. "I'm not getting in unless I'm dri—" she started to say. She broke off abruptly when she realized that her husband had no intention of opening the passenger door for her.

"ALVIN!"

_Sitting on a bench in the plaza, Bruce and the others had a full view when Alvin Jandt's BMW crashed head-on into a storefront across the street…_


	23. 22. Moment of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds himself embroiled in an ethical dilemma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!
> 
> "The Moment of Truth" written by Peter Beckett and Dennis Lambert. Recorded by Survivor on the Karate Kid soundtrack album (Casablanca, 1984).

_If you can do it_  
Get up and prove it  
Get up and show them who you are  
It's the moment of truth  
It's all on the line  
This is the place  
This is the time

— _Peter Beckett, Dennis Lambert, "The Moment of Truth"_

**Chapter 22—Moment of Truth**

Bruce was running toward Jandt's car before his conscious mind had fully processed what he'd witnessed. The tux didn't matter. The audience—horrified pedestrians and gawking motorists—didn't matter. He was across the street and an ambulance was who knew how far away. That was the only thing that mattered. He reached the car and opened the driver's door. Jandt's airbag had deployed, pressing him back into his seat. His breathing was slow and shallow his nose was crooked and he was evidently on the road to sporting two impressive black eyes. As Bruce watched, Jandt's eyes opened a fraction and he emitted a low groan. "Jandt?" he asked softly.

There was another groan.

"Hold still," Bruce urged, wondering how aware Jandt was of the situation. He reached into his pocket for his keys. There was a flashlight on the key ring and he gently held Jandt's eye open with one hand while he shined the light into it with the other. He repeated the action with the second eye.

"How is he?" Dick was at his elbow.

"Alive," was Bruce's terse report. "But his pupils aren't contracting under bright light. He's probably sustained a head injury. EMTs?"

"Babs is on with them now."

Bruce nodded. Jandt was breathing and the car showed no signs of catching fire or exploding. Trying to get him out of the car was likely to do more harm than good. He noticed that the motor was still running and quickly turned off the ignition.

"He always has me drive when he's had too much," Bruce heard a woman's voice nearby. He pulled his head out of the car and looked around. Jandt's wife… Michelle. Jim had his arm wrapped around her shoulders and was nodding sympathetically.

"I know he drinks too much at these parties but… it was like he was possessed!"

Bruce frowned. Then he looked back to Jandt. Still frowning, he pulled the cap off of the injured man's head and examined the inside. Carefully, he ran his fingers along the inner rim and stopped when they encountered something hard and flat. A moment later, he held up a square chip.

"Hatter?" Dick asked.

"I think so." He walked over to Jim and Michelle.

"How is he?" Michelle demanded, the steadiness of her voice belying the fear in her eyes.

Bruce hesitated. "The airbag deployed, but it looks like he hit his head. Paramedics should be here any minute." He took a breath. "Did you and your husband check your coats in the Center?"

"Yes," she said blankly. "Why?"

"Do you have a hat?"

"What? No… I," she put a hand self-consciously to her hair. "I was afraid it would crush this," she patted the flower lightly. Her face crumpled. "Oh, my Go—, why are you asking me that?" she said with a strangled sob. "What difference does it make?"

Bruce ignored the questions. He noted that she was wearing a woolen cloak coat, with the hood hanging slack behind her. "Mrs. Jandt," he said, "this may seem like a strange request, but would you mind if I examined your hood for a moment?"

She gaped at him. "You want me to take off my coat? Now?! Who are you? My husband has just… and you're… _Why aren't you helping him_?!"

"No, taking off your coat won't be necessary," Bruce said, trying to get her to focus. "I just need to see the hood."

"What does this have to do with _Alvin_?"

"Possibly a good deal." When she buried her face in her hands, and Jim shot him a disapproving look, Bruce relented. There wasn't any real reason not to elaborate. None beyond his normal drive for secrecy. "Mrs. Jandt," he said gently, "as you might be aware, the Mad Hatter recently escaped from custody. You've told me that your husband's actions were out of character, and he _was_ wearing a hat. I found this," he held up the chip, "in the brim. I'd like to see if there's one in your hood, as well."

Her eyes grew wide. "You think… Su-sure. Go ahead."

"Thank you." It took him less than thirty seconds to find the chip. He turned to Jim.

"Notify the hotel staff. If they don't listen—"

"I'll call Sawyer," Jim nodded. No need to mention that they needed to inspect the garments in the coat room before the evening ended and the gala guests started to leave.

Bruce glanced toward Dick and Barbara. "You didn't check your hats, did you?"

"With Tetch on the loose?" Dick grinned. "Who wore one?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "Good."

A siren wailed, interrupting their conversation. A moment later, an ambulance and two police cars pulled up and Bruce went over to talk to them.

Dick headed back to the hotel. "I got to get to work," he muttered to Barbara, as he passed her in the plaza.

* * *

Batman went easy on the coatroom attendant. Going by the man's sluggish movements and the utter lack of skill or style in which he charged the vigilante, it was plain that his actions weren't entirely his own. A choke-out hold ended the fight quickly.

Batman wasn't at all surprised to find another mind-control chip in the brim of the attendant's hat. He removed it swiftly and nodded to the convention security staff waiting in the hallway. "Looks like our hunch was right," he said. "Anyone want to lend a hand getting the chips out of these hats?"

"I will," one of the guards stepped forward. "Trust me, you don't want to hold these people up when they want to leave."

Batman grunted. "Entitlement issues?"

"You have _no_ idea."

Batman allowed himself a brief smile. "You'd be surprised..."

* * *

Bruce watched stoically as the paramedics got Jandt safely into the ambulance, just as his brother came rushing up. To his surprise, the councillor made no attempt to approach the vehicle, stopping next to Bruce instead.

"There's no reason for word of this to get back to the Academy, is there?"

Bruce tensed. "I beg your pardon?"

"Surely, a man like you can appreciate the need for discretion," Councillor Jandt replied. "There's an election coming up in a few months, and I'm looking to court the police vote. My brother's antics could jeopardize that. Now, I have ways of downplaying these sorts of incidents in the general media, but I need to know that you'll help me out on this as well."

He fought back a wave of irritation. "Councillor, I—"

"Oh please, Bruce. Call me Neal."

" _Councillor_ ," Bruce repeated, "I'm not entirely sure what you want me to do. It's not like I have any um… pull at the Academy. If anything, my speaking up would likely be construed as an attempt to use my social standing to garner special treatment. I'm sure you can see how that's likely to make matters worse."

The councillor laughed. "I'm not asking you to say anything, Bruce," he said with a hearty smile. "The last thing I want is for them to be aware of this. If I can count on you in this matter," he continued, "I know you have a big day coming up this summer. In front of a judge, I believe? I might be able to put in a good word or two on your behalf. What do you think?"

He'd fought Clayface before. He remembered the wave of disgust he'd felt that first time, as ropes and runnels of cold, slimy mud had oozed over him. This was almost worse. "I think, Councillor," he said slowly, "that if my brother had just been seriously injured in a car accident, I'd be either trying to ride with the paramedics in the ambulance or following behind them in my car. I think I'd stop focusing on damage control and start focusing on family. But maybe that's just me." He looked at his companion and was gratified when the councillor dropped his eyes.

"Sir?" An officer said, approaching them and looking at Bruce. "I understand that you witnessed the accident? May I ask you some questions?"

Bruce nodded. He glanced at the councillor. "Good night… Neal."

He strode away briskly and did not look back.

* * *

Cass listened to the math problem again and jammed the heel of her hand against her forehead.

**A painter mixes gallons of paint in a large cylindrical bucket so that there will be no difference in colour among individual gallons.**

**If one gallon of paint has a volume of approximately 8000 cubic centimeters, what is the maximum number of whole gallons of paint that can be poured into a bucket with a height of 60 centimeters and a base of 40 centimeters?**

She heard the choices, but she didn't have a clue how to solve for it. Angrily, she paused the audio program. There was a formula, she knew. She'd memorized it. But she'd memorized so many of them. "Length times width times height," she muttered. "Volume. But… base?" She frowned. Reaching for the printer tray, she extracted two pieces of paper and then reached for a ruler and pen. "Doesn't have to be centimeters," she said. "Okay inches. And okay six and four, not sixty-forty." She measured a four-inch line on her page. "Okay. Four. And six…" She drew a six-inch line on the second sheet. "Scissors," she muttered under her breath. She stopped. No, if she cut the line, it wouldn't be a cylinder. A cylinder had a round base. So that line had to be the widest part of the circle, which meant it was the middle of the… Her eyes widened. "One _half_ base times height." No. No, that wasn't right. That was for a triangle. Circles were different. Something about 3.14 and…

She pushed the book away with a sigh. She knew this. She'd known it fine before she'd gotten so focused on the essay section. But she didn't know it now.

She jammed the heel of her hand against her forehead again. _Think. Think!_ She pulled the math text off of the overhead shelf and opened to the first page on which she'd affixed a sticky note. It wasn't that one, nor the next, nor the one after that. Finally, on the fifth sticky note, she found it. "Pi times radius times radius times height." Barbara had told her that 'radius times radius' meant 'radius squared,' but that had confused her. How could a circle be square? It was easier to remember that the 'little two in the air' meant 'the number times itself'. And as long as she knew the formula, who cared what she called it? And she did know it… now.

She shook her head. Now was good, but she needed to know how to solve this type of problem at the time she took the test, too! She brought the heel of her hand to her forehead once more and closed her eyes. Then she resumed the audio, gave her answer and listened to the next question.

* * *

"You're quiet," Jim remarked, as Bruce drove back to the manor. "Not that you're ever much of a chatterbox, mind you, but are you okay? Was the soup hotter than it seemed at first… um… splash?"

Bruce shook his head, scowling. "No. Jandt."

"Ah. Which one?" Jim sniffed. "Not that either of them seemed like much of a prize to me."

That elicited a grunt. "Alvin and I have our differences. His brother's overall behavior sheds some light on his… situation."

"And by situation, I take it that you mean 'baggage'," Jim nodded. "So. Now what?"

Bruce changed lanes. "Sorry?"

Jim was silent for a few moments. "You're still covering the Police Ethics module, right?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up at the change in subject. "For another two weeks. Why?"

"How about I help you review the material, seeing as that's one of the ones you have to retake. Here's a hypothetical. You are a police academy cadet in a city where police have been generally perceived as corrupt in the past. Although the current administration is taking steps to shed that reputation, old feelings and attitudes die hard. For that reason, the academy has adopted a zero tolerance policy on several behaviours deemed 'unbecoming a cadet'. This policy and these behaviors are clearly outlined in the Academy handbook and verbally restated at orientation, along with the consequences for infraction."

Bruce took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot Jim a hard look. "Hypothetical," he muttered.

"Hey, 'hypothetical' doesn't mean it can't happen." His smile faded. "You encounter one of your fellow cadets while outside campus."

"Shouldn't that be 'off campus'?" Bruce asked under his breath.

"Not when you're discussing the Police Academy. No, I don't know why. Moving right along, now. Your fellow cadet has been drinking, which, while not precisely against the rules, is not something encouraged. However, you subsequently see him get behind the wheel while still under the influence. There is an accident, albeit one which causes no injury to any other parties. Because this cadet has certain connections, there is reason to believe that the entire incident will be kept out of the media. Assuming that the cadet did not sustain any permanent or long-term injuries, he is likely to return to the Academy in a few days time—hopefully a good deal more," he coughed, "sober in his outlook. What do you do?"

Bruce shook his head, frowning. "In this hypothetical situation," he said slowly, "a lot might depend on whether the cadet was acting of his own volition. For example, if it were to subsequently come to light that a recently-escaped criminal with a propensity for mind control experiments had targeted the event which my fellow cadet and I attended, and if it were determined that the only reason that the cadet was DUI was because he was being controlled by said criminal, there might be grounds to excuse his offense."

"There might be," Jim allowed. "Interesting that you used the term 'DUI,' though. 'Driving under the influence'. I know it's officially supposed to refer specifically to alcohol and other drugs, but—"

"You can't be serious," Bruce said. "He was as much a victim as—"

"As someone who hadn't been drinking? Let's remember one thing, Bruce. Alcohol is a legal substance. However, being under its influence doesn't absolve an individual of culpability. In other words, the courts tend to frown on 'Your honor, my client was too drunk to know what he was doing,' as a defense."

Bruce's eyebrows knit together. "I can appreciate that. However, there is a marked difference between choosing to drink and get behind the wheel, versus choosing to drink, putting on a hat, and being compelled by an outside agent to get behind a wheel."

"So, you contend," Jim said carefully, "that he should not be liable to consequences because he was being unduly influenced by something done to him without his consent."

This time, Bruce's look was incredulous. "Are you disagreeing?"

"Not exactly," Jim said slowly. "But I am thinking of a hospital patient who was given a certain mood-altering medication without his knowledge or consent. The medication rendered him violent and paranoid and, while under its influence, he attacked and severely injured a bystander. As a result, he was kept under heavy sedation and restraint. The thing is, when the patient became cognizant of his past actions, he did not contest the hospital's decision."

"That's because the hospital's ruling was precautionary, rather than punitive."

"But the patient still held himself accountable."

Bruce let out a sigh. "Yes."

"And now he's arguing that another individual should not be held accountable for a situation that has more than a few parallels."

"…"

Jim waited a few more minutes, until Bruce took the turn for the Kane Bridge back to Bristol. "I think our hypothetical cadet needs to keep one thing in mind. He has no idea whether the police academy staff is going to take the extenuating circumstances into consideration. It really can go either way. His fellow cadet may not have made the decision to get behind the wheel. That doesn't change the fact that being drunk, inside or outside campus _is_ considered 'behavior unbecoming an academy cadet' and _is_ grounds for disciplinary action. They put you and every other cadet through hell just to get accepted into the Academy. They're not going to shrug their shoulders and turn a blind eye if someone messes up significantly, despite their best efforts to weed out the applicants whom they deem likeliest to do so. But our hypothetical cadet needs to keep something in mind when he's determining whether he needs to take any sort of action."

Bruce waited until he'd merged into the lane for the Crest Hill exit before glancing at Jim again. "Which is?"

Jim shrugged. "It's not the cadet's call whether the Academy brass are going to throw the book his classmate or not. He is unlikely to be asked for input into actions taken or verdicts rendered. In fact, the only thing in this whole scenario that _is_ the cadet's call is whether to submit a report of the events he witnessed… or whether to allow the entire incident to be swept under the rug."

The traffic light changed to red and Jim reached over to give Bruce's arm a fatherly pat once the car pulled to a stop. "It is your call, Bruce. Nobody's going to make it for you."

Bruce was silent for the remainder of the drive.

* * *

Barbara had barely gotten home and settled into her office when Batman slid over the windowsill. "You're lucky," she said, as he pulled back the cowl. "I just turned off the defenses." She leaned in for a kiss.

Dick was shaking his head as they parted. "I wish you hadn't. I can deal with them and with this contract out—"

"Yeah, but when you deactivate them, I usually need to replace components. When I do it, they stay intact. What's up?"

Dick reached into his utility belt and extracted a thin control chip. "It's one of Tetch's. See what you can do about tracing the signal." He made a face. "He might be piggybacking it on another frequency, though I don't think it's one of the local radio stations."

Barbara nodded. "I'm glad he's got a thing for hats. I mean, could you imagine if he did send out his commands over the WGBC?"

"I'm trying not to," Dick said with a pained smile. He sighed. "Okay. I haven't spoken to Penguin yet and I bet he's got a new deathtrap he's just itching to try out. Luckily," he bent down to kiss Barbara again, "he doesn't know that my significant other has taken it upon herself to make sure I'm able to deal with every sneaky surprise a person can come up with and then some. Which," he kissed her other cheek, "is why," he brought his lips to hers, "I need you to keep those defenses on!" This time, his lips lingered a good deal longer. "Okay?"

Barbara sighed. "Okay. But you'd better call in if you come back in no shape to disable them or it's gonna hurt."

He pulled the cowl down again and headed for the window. Then he dashed back to her for another kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too. Just remember that if you trip my systems later."

She heard a merry laugh incongruous with the costume as he leaped into the night.

* * *

Selina wasn't there when he got back to the manor.

Tim rolled his eyes in the direction of the nursery. "She… might be tapping into the speed force," he said. "It took forever to get her ready for bed. You haven't been lacing her formula with espresso, right?"

"She's been off formula for about a year," Bruce said absently. "Thanks for babysitting."

Tim smiled. "No big deal once she finally got to sleep. I got four pages done on my Poli Sci paper."

Bruce grunted noncommittally.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine," Bruce said with forced joviality. "Have a good rest of the night."

Tim wrinkled his nose. "Is that seafood I smell?"

"Good night, Tim."

Tim watched as Bruce retreated into the study. "Oh… kay," he said, wishing that he knew how to get Bruce to open up a bit and feeling a bit guilty when he acknowledged that he probably wouldn't know how to deal if Bruce ever did.

* * *

Bruce could barely wait until he made it down to the cave. He'd done enough push-ups and ab crunches this week already. He made a beeline for the weight machines. Although he welcomed the burn, after twenty minutes, he realized that he needed to hit something. He forced himself to complete the weight routine before he strode over to the boxing corner to tackle the heavy bag.

Damn it. He didn't even _like_ Jandt. Why was he so dead set against writing the report? As he landed blow after blow against the weighted bag, he realized that it was probably _because_ he didn't like Jandt that he was resisting it. He didn't want to appear as though he was letting his personal feelings in any way cloud his judgment. That and… something within him recoiled at the entire process. He jabbed at the bag again. The process that forced him to become a snitch. Another jab. The process that reduced him to being a cog in a machine. Jab again. Jandt was salvageable. He knew it. If he could only work with him… If Jandt was willing to be worked with… but expelling him would do him no good at all. But would keeping him on do any good for the Academy and later the GCPD? Jim was right about one thing: whether he would have driven the car without Hatter's commands, the fact was that Jandt had been drinking in direct opposition to the Academy's directives. And while Bruce hadn't exactly been carrying a breathalyser on him, he'd caught more than a whiff of alcohol on his fellow cadet when he'd checked him out in the car. The hospital would have the full details, but Bruce had no doubt that Jandt had been driving under the influence.

According to Jim, the Academy wouldn't necessarily take extenuating circumstances into consideration. Bruce actually understood that. He'd always held himself to a higher standard than he expected of anyone else. Operating outside the law, he'd known that he would need to, if he was to have the police recognize him as an ally in the war against crime. It shouldn't surprise him that the individuals who embodied the law would adhere all the more strictly to it. Corrupt cops made headlines. So did incompetent cops. And so did cops who were drunk or otherwise intoxicated while on-duty.

He headed into the trophy room for the Beretta, reflecting dryly that some might think he'd already been through enough torture for one night, between the gala and the conversation on the way home and the workout. Still, he got the gun and ammunition and headed for the firing range.

He felt a fresh surge of anger as he loaded the gun. He wasn't sure if it was directed at the Jandt brothers, at Jim, or at the fact that he couldn't deal with the situation in his own way. The police had his statement, which placed him at the scene of the accident. That was going to get back to the Academy and relatively quickly—unless the councillor had been serious about being able to keep the matter hushed up. But Bruce would be damned if he'd pursue that avenue.

He aimed the gun and fired at the target until he'd discharged all the rounds in the magazine and then, as usual, he pulled the control lever to retrieve the target. He wasn't sure why he was bothering. He'd been anything but focused tonight. He'd practically been on autopilot. With a sigh, he detached the target and reached into the basket to his left to clip a fresh one. Then he looked at the one he'd just removed and his eyes widened. He'd discharged every bullet into the red zone in the center of the silhouette.

* * *

"You're not worried?" Selina asked at breakfast the next morning. "I mean, if you're trying to keep Helena's relationship to you under wraps, the cat's going to be out of the bag, the minute she starts calling you 'Daddy'."

Bruce sighed. "It can't be helped. I'll tell Ortega that I'm the only father she knows and that for understandable reasons, I'm not parading her to the world. And," an almost boyish smile flitted across his face, "that I have to admit I don't mind being called 'Daddy'." He sighed. "I suppose that it's that or we build her a tower in the woods and stop cutting her hair."

Selina laughed out loud.

"Do you disagree?"

She shook her head, still smiling. "No, but I never thought I'd hear you admit it."

"Well," Bruce said slowly, "it's either accept the situation or admit that Roy Harper can juggle the demands of costume and child-rearing better than I can—and I don't think I'm comfortable doing that."

"I… hate to bring it up," Selina said slowly. "I mean, I'm glad to hear you talking like this. But how safe is Harper's kid?"

Bruce sighed. "There have been incidents. However, I think that when we take into account that you and I have various competencies that Harper lacks, and recognize that my security is somewhat better…" He closed his eyes. "It's not ideal. I'd be a fool to state otherwise. But I can't keep her locked in the nursery when people come to call—particularly people with small children of their own. As long as we take the necessary precautions, I think we'll manage."

"I think you're right. Let's just hope we both are."

Bruce nodded soberly.

* * *

Samantha Ortega took to Helena instantly and the feeling appeared mutual. "Want to play Candy Land?" She looked at Bruce. "Do you _have_ Candy Land, Mr. Wayne?"

"I… think she may be a little young for that, _chiquita_ ," Ortega said gently.

"Oh." Samantha pressed a small finger to her cheek thinking. "Let's play house!"

Selina laughed. "Why don't I take you young ladies to the nursery while," she glanced at Bruce, "you and… Luisa…?"

Ortega nodded.

"…get settled."

"Sounds good," Bruce nodded. "We can set up in the dining room.

* * *

Ortega pushed away the manual with a sigh. "Looks to me like a lot more responsibility and no glory whatsoever."

Bruce helped himself to the plate of sandwich cookies he'd emptied from the package before they'd sat down.

"We're not in this for glory," he pointed out.

"Well, no," Ortega said, reaching for a cookie of her own, "that's true. Still… if they're going to make us work this much harder, it would be nice to get _some_ appreciation." She popped the cookie into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. "Instead, it just feels like they've got us under a microscope and they're increasing the magnification."

"That's fairly accurate," Bruce admitted straight-faced.

"Jeez, are you always this optimistic?" Ortega bent down to the page again. "I love it. After two weeks of trying to make us all one big happy family, I feel like I'm getting disowned."

"Clarify, please?"

"Did you read this?"

Bruce nodded. "On Friday evening, yes. " He sighed. "I presume that you're referring to our new place in the chain of command."

Ortega took another cookie. "First we're supposed to have each other's backs. Now we're supposed to…" she shook her head. "I was bullied in school. Snitching only made matters worse."

"How's it going?" Jim poked his head into the dining room. "That plate looks a bit low. Here." He placed a round cookie tin on the table and pried the lid off ceremoniously. "Martha sent them."

"Thanks," Bruce said. "But if she meant them for you…"

"She meant them to be shared. I'm sharing them." He sat down. "For what it's worth, 'snitching,' as you phrased it, _can_ make matters worse in the short-term. The problem is that if you keep quiet about something and it blows up later, the people who had the chance to nip things in the bud early and didn't tend to caught in the blast radius. Let's look at things from a purely economical perspective. You're paying your tuition, but the City is still investing a certain amount in your training and development. Every year you're with the force makes you that much more valuable and gives you that much more experience. When thing go wrong, someone has to answer for it, and if things go very wrong, it's not just the person who screwed up; it's all the people who let that person slide. If the problem is endemic to the system—like the stories that come out about high school graduates with high averages who are functionally illiterate—the system gets taken to task and, hopefully, reformed. But if it's one mess-up? The fish who get fed to the sharks are the ones with the lowest rank that the Department believes will satisfy them. A major corruption scandal? Yeah, they'll go for the top brass. But a couple of cops on the take? Whoever they report to had better have a very good explanation for how they missed what was going on right under their noses or why they chose to overlook it."

"What if it's something we can deal with ourselves? I mean, without escalating things up the line?" Ortega asked.

Jim nodded seriously. "That's why you need to learn the material in that handbook. There _are_ situations that you can deal with on your own. You still need to file reports so there's a written record. You're cadets. It's understood that you're not all going to ace everything out of the gate. It's also understood that shortcomings are meant to be worked on. You're getting a rare opportunity to demonstrate judgment and leadership—among other things. Most of your class won't get that opportunity until they've spent some time out of the Academy and assigned to a precinct. Recognize that for the gift it is. And by the way," Jim smiled, "part of the goal of the Academy is to winnow the crop; separate the wheat from the chaff. They wouldn't have put the two of you in this position if they didn't think you could handle it." He took a deep breath and let it out.

"But then," he added, "you probably both realize that already and you have enough to do without listening to an impassioned pep talk by an old, retired commissioner. I suspect you already know what you have to do," he smiled, looking from Ortega to Bruce and fixing his gaze a few seconds longer than necessary before looking back to Ortega. "Carry on, Cadets." He lifted the coffee pot. "This is getting low. I'll put up a fresh pot and leave you to it."

* * *

When Ortega took a break to check the nursery, Bruce headed downstairs. He supposed that he could have called Barbara from the house, but he was used to restricting his dealings with Oracle to the Cave.

"Councillor Jandt informed me that he's used to cleaning up his younger brother's messes," Bruce explained. "I'm reasonably sure that if I file a report about what I observed last night, and there's no corroborating evidence anywhere in the system, it's going to appear as though I'm using my newfound position to frame a cadet nobody likes for an infraction that could get him expelled. At best, it will make me look sloppy. At worst, vindictive."

"Understood," Oracle replied. "You gave a statement last night. Did you get the name of the officer who took it?"

"Batista."

"I'll check into it. The hospital is supposed to report any suspected criminal activity to the police. My guess is that Jandt isn't enough of a hypocrite to bribe cops to look the other way and then try to get re-elected on promises to clean up police corruption. Or if he is, he knows exactly who he can approach without having the whole thing blow up in his face. I'm betting his connections are with the hospitals."

"We're on the same page," Bruce nodded to the vid-screen. "How long will it take you to find out?"

"We're looking for something that happened within the last 24 hours, in Gotham, involving places that are known for keeping good records. Check back with me around supper time."

* * *

Four hours passed. They finished covering the manual and started work on the general Ethics assignment. "This is one area where we can't just hold our own," Ortega pointed out. "We'd better lead the class. I mean…" she looked away, in sudden embarrassment. "Not that you're likely to have any problems with the material. Um…"

"You wouldn't think so," Bruce rejoined softly. "But I am having problems where my personal code of ethics—or that of the Justice League—conflicts with that set down by the department." He sighed. "For example, a number of years ago, one of our number became involved with drugs. We dealt with the matter internally, helped him get back on track, and although it took some time before he was ready to resume crime-fighting, he did eventually get back to it. I don't think we were wrong to give him time to clean up his act and subsequently reinstate him."

Ortega nodded, but she was frowning. "Yeah… but you guys don't really have to answer to anyone external to your team, unless you want to, right? I know that if I were a civilian and I'd seen people get hurt or worse, and then found out that one of the officers called to the scene had been drunk or high and couldn't think straight, I'd be screaming blue murder and rallying for some sort of 'cape oversight committee.' I mean," her expression turned stricken. "I'm sorry. If you say that guy turned his life around, I believe it. But that was him. That's not everyone. Sometimes… you have to look at the stats and play the odds."

Bruce sighed. "Don't think we didn't bring up those same arguments at the time. At any rate, there are many places in which the Police Ethics code and the code I'm used to following overlap. I'm not saying that mine is necessarily better. But it's what I'm used to and I'm finding it difficult to remember the areas where they _don't_." He looked at the assignment again.

"Of course," he continued, "it appears that Sergeant Tocchini had that thought in mind when creating these questions. Nearly every example so far seems to cover one of those areas…"

* * *

"Councillor Jandt got him booked under a fake name, same as we did with you after the fire," Barbara reported. "It's not that uncommon when dealing with high-profile patients and a politician's kid brother qualifies. He's at Gotham General. His injuries are relatively minor: snapped collarbone, a couple of cracked ribs, whiplash, mild concussion, some bruises… Considering he wasn't wearing his seatbelt when the airbag deployed, he was pretty lucky."

Bruce nodded. "And his BAC?"

"That could be a problem," Barbara admitted. "It was 0.096. They did full blood-work on him when he came in. The problem is that if the officers didn't go along to the emergency room and demand the sample for testing, patient confidentiality comes into play. State laws prevent hospitals from proactively notifying police and without a subpoena, they won't release those records."

"Did they?" Bruce asked, leaning forward.

Barbara hesitated. "I'm not sure. If they did, it would make it harder to cover this whole thing up, unless the cops are in on it. Or unless…" Bruce could hear typing in the background. "Hang on… Gotham General stopped routine testing for BAC a few years back. They're not alone; there are a bunch of hospitals that are worried that the patients' insurance won't cover injuries sustained while DWI, so they've stopped the routine testing. But if they tested Jandt…"

"Then it must have been requested by the officer at the scene."

"Right. And… here we go. The records are all under the name of 'Melvin Stanton.' That's the fake name that Jandt was registered under. If he gets charged under that name, and Melvin Stanton doesn't exist…"

Bruce nodded. "The courts are overloaded. Jandt didn't kill or injure anyone other than himself. There'll be a warrant issued for his arrest, but the police won't be conducting a city-wide manhunt for him. They'll likely decide to wait and hope he's pulled over for a traffic violation and arrest him when his name comes up in their computer—which it won't."

There was a pause. "Well," Barbara said slowly, "that's if everything goes according to plan. However… what if the person tasked with registering Jandt under a false name was just the tiniest bit sloppy? Remember, they need his real name for the medical insurance, which means it has to be in the system somewhere. So… what if Jandt's real name gets accidentally attached to the blood-work results?"

Bruce pressed his fingers to his temples. Jandt wasn't entirely responsible for his circumstances, but he wasn't exactly an innocent bystander either. Still… Still, it wasn't his call. He had to write the report. And if he knew that the evidence to corroborate it was about to vanish into the system, he had to ensure that it wouldn't.

"Do it."

* * *

"They're really hitting it off," Luisa Ortega smiled, as she watched the two children race for the slide with squeals of glee. "I just hope Samantha remembers that Helena isn't a toy."

"Somehow," Selina said, "I don't think Helena's going to let her."

Helena slid down the shiny metal expanse into a pit of soft rubber balls. A moment later, Samantha followed. Samantha glanced over to where the two women were sitting and waved. Helena was already lining up for another turn. After a second, Samantha followed suit.

"They're fine," Selina grinned. "I never knew this place existed, but I've got a feeling that we'll be back." She felt the hairs prick up along the back of her neck as her eyes panned the room. Something was off. Her gaze lingered on the threesome at the takeout counter. All wore long coats with the collars up and hats pulled low. A father, mother, and child, from the look of things. Then why…?

"Luisa," she said slowly, "I need to go to the ladies room. Can you go over and keep an eye on the kids?"

"I can see them fine from here," Ortega protested.

She forced a smile. "Let's just call me an over-protective mother and humor me. If we aren't both keeping an eye on them, I'd rather you were closer, okay?"

"Is something wrong?"

Selina sighed. "I really hope not, but—"

All at once, the trio turned and pulled long rifles out from under their coats. "Everyone, stay where you are and keep your hands where we can see them!"


	24. 23. Time to Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selina finds herself in the thick of a hostage situation with a companion who isn't going to wait for rescue. Bruce comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!
> 
> "It's My Time" written by Tammy Hyler, Billy Crain, and Kim Tribble. Recorded by Martina McBride on her Emotion album (RCA Nashville, 2000).

_There's a time to stand and the time is now or never_  
A time to fly, time to let go forever  
A time to grow, and a time to discover

— _Tammy Hyler, Billy Crain, Kim Tribble, "It's My Time"_

**Chapter 23—Time to Stand**

Luisa Ortega felt as though she'd suddenly split into two. First, she was Luisa Ortega a busy mother, trying to raise a small daughter, with a husband who was often deployed overseas for months at a time, while training for a new career. When the 'family' at the cash register pulled out their guns, that part of her wanted nothing more than to grab her daughter and run—or, if fleeing was out of the question, grab Samantha and hold her close to reassure her that everything was okay, even if she was lying through her teeth. She was ready to plead for her daughter's life, offer anything in return… if they would only let Samantha go.

But she was also Cadet Ortega, who had earned a black belt in ninjitsu at nineteen and another in kickboxing at twenty-one. She had mastered bits and pieces from other martial arts and combat styles, and taught a women's self-defense class for three years. She damned well wasn't prepared to play victim now. And if any of those people so much as harmed a hair on her daughter's Barbie doll's head, she knew that there was going to be hell to pay—and she would happily volunteer to be Satan's top bill collector.

"Everyone," the shortest member of the trio snapped, "take out your cell phones and place them in the center of your table. Don't get cute and call the cops. If they show up, well, you know how in the movies, sometimes a hostage gets shot, just so the gunmen can prove they mean business? If anyone here is stupid enough to try calling 911, they'll be saving us the trouble of playing eeny meenie miney mo."

He wasn't a child, Ortega realized. He was probably about her own age, or even slightly younger, but he stood barely five feet tall. "Our children," she said, projecting her voice as she'd been taught when she'd taken public speaking, ages ago. "They're—"

"They're fine where they are," the 'mother' of the armed trio interrupted. "Let them play. With any luck, we'll be out of here before they know what's going on, and you can go back to your dinners. Wallets and jewelry; add them to the pile in the middle."

"Hey!" a boy of about ten or eleven poked his head out of the play area. "You guys are trying to rob our parents!"

The 'father' pivoted and aimed his gun directly at the child. "Sit down and shut up," he snarled.

"I'm not afraid of you!" the boy shot back scornfully.

"Franklin!" a man's voice yelled. "Sit!"

"But, Dad, he…"

The gunman strode impatiently toward the play area. In the blink of an eye, Luisa realized that he was going to pass her table. A cool breeze seemed to wash over her. It felt as though she was moving in slow motion as she waited for the right moment, rising to her feet just before he walked by. The gunman wasn't expecting that. His rifle jerked up toward her head. "Sit back down," he snapped, holding the gun a few inches away from her.

She raised her hands in what she hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "Can we try to work this out?" she asked quickly. If she could catch him off-guard, then she had a chance.

The gunman frowned and started to respond.

That was when she reached under and grabbed the rifle stock in her right hand, tugging it sharply toward her to break the gunman's grip and forcing the muzzle up, so that it was now pointed at the gunman's face.

The would-be robber cried out in surprise. Then, seeing his own gun aimed toward him, he raised his hands in defeat.

"On the floor. Hands on your head," Ortega commanded. "That goes for the other two of you," she called out.

"Oh, I don't think so," a cold voice rejoined.

Ortega heard a shriek from the play area and a gasp from her table. She forced herself to circle around the kneeling man so that she could get a clear view of the play area, instead of turning her head and allowing him the opportunity to take advantage of her distraction. Her heart plummeted. That _had_ been Samantha's shriek, all right—but the small girl who squirmed and wriggled in the short gunman's grip was…

" _Helena!_ "

* * *

"I'm not impressed, Derek," Paxton said icily. "Just tell me you weren't fool enough to pay Caddlecott to bribe that waiter."

Powers shook his head irritably. "Please, Les," he retorted, "the main idea behind last night's episode was to create a situation that couldn't be traced back to us. Well," he admitted, "in a worst-case scenario, someone might have discovered that the seating arrangements were my contribution, but that could easily be chalked up to a brash young executive trying to correct something that looked like an insulting oversight. Obviously, I had _no_ idea that Mr. Wayne wanted to avoid a central table and…"

"And the surrounding media was just a coincidence?"

Powers sighed. "Well, not one that's likely to reflect back on me," he muttered. "Giving Wayne a center table could be taken as an attempt to honor him that backfired. I can recover from that. The other seating arrangements… let's just say I employed some connections. _Discreet_ connections."

Paxton's eyes narrowed. "Trustworthy?"

"They'll tell no tales, Les. I think you can be assured of that much."

Paxton frowned. "Well, good," he said, somewhat mollified. "But I don't see that our position has improved in the last 24 hours."

Powers shook his head. "No. Not yet, anyway. But it hasn't worsened. I agree we've gained no new ground, but I don't think we've lost any. And the longer we hold this position, the harder it becomes to push us back." He smiled. "Meanwhile, we're no farther from the enemy camp. And they still don't realize we're out there…"

* * *

Ortega glowered as her former prisoner reclaimed his rifle and backhanded her across the face, then took a few steps back as she gasped and reeled. She rolled with the blow, tried to tune out Samantha's shrieks and focused on the new, cold pressure at her temple, where the gunman now jabbed the barrel of the rifle.

"That was stupid," the gunman said softly. "I suppose you think you're Wonder Woman or something?"

She didn't answer.

"Hey, skank! I asked you a question. You think you're some kind of hero?"

"Actually," a new voice snapped from somewhere in the rafters, "that would be me."

Startled, the gunman whirled in the voice's direction, raising the gun and pulling it away from Ortega. An instant later, he gasped in pain, as a crossbow bolt pierced his arm. The gun went off to a few surprised screams, as the round passed harmlessly through a skylight window.

Almost at the same moment, the short man in the play area collapsed with similar bolts in each thigh. At a furious glare from the masked vigilante, he released his hostage, who scrabbled to the far edge of the ball pit.

From her perch atop a metal ceiling strut, Huntress looked at the lone female robber. "Give me an excuse," she said, training her crossbow for another shot.

The woman shook her head and laid her rifle reluctantly on the ground. After a moment, the injured men followed suit.

Ortega hesitated for only the barest instant before she moved to collect the weapons.

Huntress sighed. "Someone call 911, if you don't mind? Kids, go find your parents," she continued in a gentler voice. "It's okay. It's over." She glanced at Ortega. "Not bad."

"Uh… thanks." Her cheeks were burning.

"Helena!"

Huntress whirled automatically at the sound of the voice. "Wha—I… _oh!_ " She relaxed as she saw one of the other patrons dash toward the play area and the little girl who had been dangling in the robber's grip moments earlier struggle to run toward her. She seemed to be having some trouble emerging from the ball pit.

"Mommy!"

Huntress smiled. _Another_ Helena. She swung down from her perch and scooped up the toddler. "Let's get you back to you mother, huh?"

Selina smiled her relief as Huntress dropped to her feet a short distance away. "Yours, I believe?"

Selina nodded, still smiling.

Helena patted Huntress's costume solemnly. Then she looked at her mother, beamed, and announced, "Pur-ple! Pur-ple!"

"Her favorite color?" Huntress asked with some amusement, as she handed the toddler over.

"Not until today, I don't think…" Selina admitted. "Thanks."

* * *

Bruce was waiting when they came back. "I was getting worried," he said casually, as they crossed the foyer.

Selina knew him well enough to recognize that he'd known exactly what had transpired and was feigning ignorance for Luisa's benefit. "We're okay," she said with a smile. "We just got a little held up." She let the smile drop. "Literally."

She caught a quick flash of gratitude in his eyes for the opening. "What?" he demanded, closing his hands on her elbows. "Are you all right? Is Helena?" He glanced at Ortega, who had one arm wrapped around her daughter's shoulders, pulling her in close. "And you…?"

"We're fine," Selina reassured him. "Just a bit shaken up. Huntress put in an appearance before things got too far out of hand. Seriously, we're okay."

"Aside from realizing that I nearly got a room full of bystanders killed," Ortega muttered.

"Luisa…"

"No!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "No. All I had to do was sit quietly, like a good little hostage, instead of trying to get three armed hostiles to stand down in a restaurant full of civilians. I was an idiot, and a lot of people nearly paid the price. But, oh no. I'm going to be a cop, so I'm supposed to be able to take down creeps like that, and I just _had_ to go proving myself. Now, I can't believe I was so stupid."

Selina put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It wasn't that bad. Huntress was impressed."

Ortega sniffed. "Great."

"Actually," Bruce reflected, "Huntress isn't easily impressed."

"Wait," Ortega frowned. "I know jumping into the fray is something _you're_ used to doing, but is that really what _I_ should be doing?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "At times," he said. "Ortega… Luisa, I'm not sure how you perceive my prior experience, but if you think I spent my nights jumping blindly into situations where I was vastly outnumbered, I can assure you that you're mistaken."

"Then you didn't…?"

He smiled. "I did jump, but it was rarely blindly. Whenever possible, I assessed the situation before engaging the hostiles. I kept a database of past foes: their strengths, their weaknesses… common MOs… weaponry of choice… every detail, no matter how minor. Before bursting into a room—and I will admit that at times, a… dramatic entrance gave me an effective psychological advantage—I accessed blueprints, so that I could make note of alternate entry points. If there was a way of doing visual reconnaissance—windows, security cameras, and the like—I took it. A blind charge _was_ sometimes necessary, but in general, it was the least effective option and the one that most frequently required medical assistance afterwards."

Ortega lowered her eyes. "I… see."

"The other thing is," Bruce continued, his voice gentle, "while I'll admit I often did engage hostiles on my own, my people generally," he coughed, "protested such recklessness. It would be safe to say that the GCPD's protests would be a bit more vehement."

"Oh noooo," Selina drawled. "I wouldn't say 'more vehement,' so much as 'infinitely harder to tune out.' Of course, that's purely a guess on my part."

Ortega's shoulders slumped. "Anyone got a pair of forceps so I can unwedge my foot from my mouth?" she muttered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I guess I always thought that…"

"That I more or less charged into the thick of every combat and knocked heads?" Bruce asked, shaking his head. "I doubt I'd have survived my first year if I did. But since I haven't been in the habit of explaining my tactics in the past," he continued lightly, "no offense taken." That got him a watery smile.

"I think Samantha and I had better head home," Ortega said. "We covered a lot of ground before and… I think I need to unwind after what happened at the restaurant. Thanks. I think I'm probably a lot clearer on a few things after today."

Bruce nodded soberly. "Luisa? I wasn't there tonight. Obviously. So I can't accurately assess your performance. If your main complaint about how you handled that situation is that you provoked a situation you think should have been avoided, from what you've told me, I'd agree. That's something you'll remember if there's ever a next time. However, if you're wondering whether there were better disarming techniques that you might have employed, had the situation escalated to a point where your actions would have been warranted… that's something we can review at some future date."

Ortega smiled. "Thanks. I don't know if there are, but it wouldn't exactly shock me. I've taught self-defense classes and we cover a few of those tactics, but that doesn't mean I can't learn more. And," she flushed, "well, I mean, if Batman is giving out pointers, I guess I'd have to be an idiot not to take advantage."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered. In all seriousness, though? While this evening is still fresh in your mind, I'd suggest writing down exactly what happened, to the best of your recollection. How the situation arose, what you did, what Huntress did… all of it. Think of it like a practice test in report writing, if you wish. Our spare time is going to be limited for a while and your account will be helpful when we finally get the chance to go over these events."

Ortega nodded. "Understood. And… thanks. Again."

* * *

"You're sure you're all right?" Bruce asked later. "And I do own a dishwasher."

Selina smiled and rinsed off another plate under the sink faucet, then handed it to Bruce to dry. "Ah, but a dishwasher doesn't give us the same opportunity for bonding. I mean, it's one of the few chances we get to talk."

"We talk," Bruce said defensively.

"No, darling. _I_ talk. You smile and nod while you multitask. At least drying dishes keeps you more focused on the conversation." She tilted her head at him coquettishly. "And I'm fine."

Bruce carefully dried the plate and two glasses, before he spoke again. "When I saw the report, I thought…"

"I know." She closed her eyes. "Did you call in Huntress?"

"No. I called Dick. He called her once he realized she was closer to the restaurant. But you don't know how close I came to pulling on a costume and rushing out myself."

"We discussed that," Selina shot back. "Here," she handed him a fork.

"I know," he took it. "However, had Huntress not been in the area, I'm not sure I could have abided by that decision. How was Helena?"

"I assume you mean our daughter and not—"

"Yes."

Selina grinned. "Fine. She had no idea how much danger she was in, so she had no idea she was supposed to be scared. And the other Helena was pretty damned good, too."

Bruce nodded. "What Ortega said before…"

Selina sighed. "Well, it wasn't exactly a smart play, but she pulled it off pretty decently, at least at first. And, even if she didn't realize it, getting the creeps to focus on her probably made it a lot easier for Huntress to get into position." She turned off the faucet. "She's got heart and she's got guts. If she lives long enough to acquire better judgment, she'll probably be a fine officer one day. And since she's not too proud… or scared… to ask for help, she just might manage it." Her smile died. "Of course, when she jumped into action—in a restaurant full of civilians, no less—I wanted to kill her myself. Except you'd probably have wanted me to save her life."

Bruce put a hand on her shoulder. "If Helena had been hurt in any way, I might have understood your reluctance."

She turned toward him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Well," she said briskly, "we're home and we're okay, and we have…" she looked at her watch, "about another half hour to enjoy her company before she," she kissed him, "and you need to hit the hay."

Bruce smiled. "I guess we should go to the nursery and relieve Jim, then."

* * *

Batman's ribs still ached from the pounding he'd taken from Penguin's goons the night before. He'd run a gauntlet of them, all intent on herding him toward some sort of execution that had involved heat-seeking shuriken, angry bird-squawks, and trick umbrellas. Lots and lots of trick umbrellas. He didn't really remember exactly what he'd done to get out of it, but he'd been bruised, battered, and partly deafened by the time he'd confronted Penguin.

Still, the wily old bird had come through with a tip, which was why Batman was now approaching a stark gray building on the GSU campus. At one time, the Psychology Department had occupied the first three floors, with overflow from Biology taking up the remaining two. In time, though, they'd moved to more modern quarters and the building had fallen into disuse. Over a century old, it was not easily accessible to physically disabled students and, while its status as a historical site meant that it didn't have to be, the university rarely used it now, apart from renting it out to film companies in need of a period piece.

There were no bars on the fifth-floor windows and the security alarm took him less than five minutes to disable. He made his way stealthily down to the basement. The door to the labs wasn't locked. That was the first sign that there was anything amiss. The locks—a deadbolt-springbolt combination showed clear evidence of tampering. He was only moderately surprised at the absence of a key-card scanner; the technology likely hadn't been installed the last time regular classes had been scheduled here.

He pushed past the door and suppressed a groan of dismay. The labs beyond were virtually empty. There were a number of wires, test tubes, and scraps of paper littering the floors: clear evidence of a hasty departure, but no signs of life or activity.

Batman set his jaw. It looked like Hatter had been here, but had cleared out in a hurry. _Ozzie must have called him right after I left_ , he thought darkly. He knew he should have gone last night, but he'd been injured enough to call it a night and give his body a chance to heal. And in the interim, Hatter had packed up and moved on. Great. Still, he could have left behind a clue in the debris. Batman took a clear evidence bag out of one of his belt pouches, a pair of tweezers out of another, and set about collecting data.

* * *

Eyes closed, Bruce massaged his forehead. He looked at the blank computer document again, as though it might have magically filled itself out. His jaw hardened. He did not want to do this.

— _It happened off-campus._

— _Outside_ campus. And that's not the point, is it?

— _The point is that there were extenuating circumstances. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve some sort of disciplinary action for drinking to excess. We were all warned about that. But if he hadn't been drunk and had gotten behind the wheel under Hatter's control and still crashed into that window…_

—But he _was_ drunk.

— _If he's an alcoholic, then he has a sickness. Is it fair to expel him from the Academy for being sick?_

—If he's not seeking treatment? Is it fair _not_ to? Fact: You don't know that your report will get him expelled. You don't know whether they'll suspend him until he gets the help he needs, and consider readmitting him at a later date. You don't know if they'll consider mind control an extenuating circumstance. However… you do know where your responsibility lies.

— _Yes._

—Funny. You're usually the first to bench someone who isn't measuring up. Why are you bending over backwards to let Jandt off?

— _Maybe I've changed. Maybe I'm grateful for a second chance and I'd like someone else to be given the same._

—Possible. Or maybe you'd just prefer to be in charge of this situation and you resent having to be the messenger and being compelled to do no more than pass the word on to the people who really _are_ in charge.

Bruce's eyes flew open. Was that it? He didn't want to believe it, but the notion carried with it an unfortunate ring of truth. He'd admitted to Alex months ago that his need for control was out of control, but this was the first time that it really hit home. Oh, it wasn't the whole reason—he _did_ think that the top brass needed to consider Hatter's mind control more seriously. Then again… he didn't know that they wouldn't; he was guessing.

He shook his head like he was trying to shake away the idea. Jim was right: he could write the report or he could choose to sweep the matter under the rug— _j_ _ust like Neal Jandt wanted…_

Alvin was irresponsible, yes. But as long as nobody held him accountable for his actions, he didn't seem likely to change. Somebody had to. Bruce hesitated. Did that somebody really have to be him?

He heard a mocking laugh in his mind. _NOW you're thinking about relinquishing control? Get this through your head: the only thing currently within your control is whether you do what's expected of ANY police academy cadet, especially a squad leader… or whether you close your eyes to the situation because you resent people telling you what to do! Now what's it going to be?_

A red haze seemed to cloud his vision for a moment. Then Bruce took a deep breath, steeled himself, and began to type his report.

When he was done, he read it over carefully for anything that the spelling and grammar checks might have missed. Then he addressed an email to Fawkes, inserted the subject line 'Hardcopy to follow,' attached the report, and hit Send.

* * *

"I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised," Hush sighed. "It usually happens sooner or later."

False Face leaned back in his recliner. "Pardon?"

Hush shook his head. "Put a price on the Bat's head and the hopefuls start coming out of the woodwork. But all too soon, they get so caught up in the architecture of their schemes that they all but forget who they're trying to catch. I think Hatter's fallen into that pattern."

He picked up a glass awkwardly and set it back down on the counter almost immediately. "Some days," he said bitterly, "my hands hurt worse than others. Do me a favor and pour me some ice water."

False Face hastened to obey. "I'm still not sure why you insisted on supervising the break-in at Catwoman's apartment," he admitted. "I could see that your hands were hurting you then, too. But you still chose to come along and delegate tasks." He smiled. "Or bark orders, as it were."

"You want something done right," Hush said laconically, "you have to do it yourself. Or at the very least, supervise it. I wanted her wary. I wanted her rattled. And I wanted to be very sure that she knew who was responsible. But, at the same time, I knew that if I was too obvious, she'd recognize what I was up to. The trick was to make her _think_ I was trying to conceal my presence."

False Face raised an eyebrow. "In other words, you know that she knows that you were in her apartment, but she doesn't know that you know that she knows. And you think _Hatter's_ lost sight of the main objective?"

"I'm orchestrating the plan, False Face," Hush snapped. "I have to pay attention to the details. The other players don't have that responsibility." He sighed again. "Let me know if anything further develops with Tetch, but I suspect he's simply going to try another mind-control gambit and forget that he's supposed to be using it as a Bat-snare. That will make him sloppy, and he'll be off the board in a few short moves. No, I think the winning piece will surface elsewhere…

* * *

"You want me to look over your essay?" Tim asked, surprised.

Cass nodded. "The audio," she was proud that she'd remembered to use a 'the' this time; it was one more thing she was working on, "practice tests work for other subjects. Not essay." She'd forgotten again. "Not _the_ essay."

Tim smiled. "Uh, sure. I don't mind. I mean, I thought you were looking for a sparring partner when you asked me to come over, but…"

"This _is_ spar," Cass said with a grim smile. "Me against English."

Tim moved over to the writing desk. "Who's winning?"

She shrugged. "You judge."

Tim nodded and sat down. A few minutes later, he looked up. "Okay," he said, "you've got some good ideas, but you're using a very basic vocabulary to get your point across."

She blinked at him. "So?"

Tim raised both eyebrows. "So? Cass, you could make this into something really great. Okay, so your essay topic is on setting out what you think should be basic human rights and why. Like I said, you've got some good ideas, but… okay. Here," he stabbed the paper with his forefinger, "you have 'everyone should have a right to an education."

"I remembered 'an,'" Cass said.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, you did. Nice going. No, but how high an education should it be? Like, just grade school? High school? College? Ph.D level? What about trade schools?"

Cass frowned. "Tim… essay only has to be two pages. That's… too much detail."

Tim shook his head. "No, it shows that you've really thought it through. Seriously, how much education should be a basic human right?"

"But…" Cass hesitated. "Depends. Some countries don't need as much…"

"Right, but should they? Cass, the question isn't 'What are the best rights we can extend to people based on resources?' It's 'What basic rights should all human beings enjoy?' So…"

Cass hesitated. Tim sounded so sure. "Well, to be able to read and write, yes. At least."

Tim nodded. "Okay. So try this on for size. 'Literacy should be a basic human right. All individuals, irrespective of age, gender, or socio-economic status, should be educated to the point where they are able to read and understand a newspaper unaided.' What do you think?"

Her frown deepened. "Tim… my words aren't like that."

"But they could be!" Tim replied with excitement. "Don't you get it? With a little bit of tweaking… okay, good, you've got down 'shelter'. What kind?"

Cass hesitated. "I… I should let Barbara see."

"Moreover," Tim said, scribbling in the margin of the page, "all people should have the right to a roof over their heads, capable of withstanding normal weather conditions for their part of the world. In the event of a natural disaster which is abnormal for the region, new shelters should be supplied as quickly as possible." He set down the pencil and smiled at Cass. "Isn't that better?"

Cass gave him a hard look and turned around.

"Cass? What's wrong? I thought… I mean, you were asking for help. Right?"

She let out a shuddering breath. "Tim. If I write… this… it won't be me. It's your essay. But I have to write… mine. Because… because if I ever have to write again, I need to know that I can write for me and not… not copy from you." She shook her head sadly. "This may be… better. But it's not me. Sorry."

Tim was trying to say something; explanation or apology, she wasn't sure. She was too tense to listen now. She needed to loosen up before her frustration got the better of her. She strode purposefully toward the exercise area and moved into a routine that Dick had taught her on the uneven bars. It wasn't a combat drill and she found that she had to focus on the moves to a greater degree than she normally would have. That was fine. She needed to focus, to block out any distractions, to lose herself in the exercise.

When she dismounted, Tim was gone.

Cass sighed. Then she looked at the list of essay topics again. _If your doctor told you that you had only a few months left to live, how would you change your way of life?_ She closed her eyes for a moment. "Who, what, when, where, how, why, so what," she recited aloud. She took a fresh piece of paper and began her outline.

* * *

Sergeant Guy Fawkes wasn't overly surprised to find Wayne's report in his inbox when he arrived at the RTO office at 0800 the next morning. Wayne's first class of the day had started an hour earlier, and Wayne would likely have been inside campus at some point before that. He'd seen the email yesterday, but hadn't had the chance to open it then. Besides, it hadn't been flagged as urgent, and Fawkes liked his weekends as much as the next person.

He opened the report with a faint smile. It vanished as he read on. When he was finished, he brought up the roster. Jandt wasn't one of his reports; he was Trinity Joyner's headache—or would be. Protocol dictated that he forward this to MacInnes for action. From there… He shook his head. A drunk cadet with political connections, and a possible cover-up… On second thought, this was going to be _everyone's_ headache. This was going to mean an inquiry, getting IA involved, a possible media spotlight… not to mention tons of paperwork. He looked at the report again and sighed. Then he brought up his email, located the softcopy of Wayne's report, forwarded it to MacInnes, and settled back to enjoy the last few moments of relative peace before everything hit the fan.


	25. 24. Falling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's report sparks an internal investigation. The Paxton-Powers alliance grows shaky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to PJ for information on police procedures!
> 
> Much of the Mad Hatter's dialogue in this chapter is comprised of quotations from Alice in Wonderland. My appreciation to Goodreads' Lewis Carroll author quotes page.
> 
> "Heavy Liftin'" written by Boyd Houston Robert, George Teren, and Rivers Rutherford. Recorded by Blake Shelton on his The Dreamer album (Warner Nashville, 2003).

_...even if the walls come fallin' in._

_You know I don't mind doin',_  
A little heavy liftin'.  
I'm always givin',  
My everything.  
Even when I'm hurtin',  
I keep on workin'.

_—Boyd Houston Robert, George Teren, Rivers Rutherford, "Heavy Liftin'"_

**Chapter 24—Falling In**

"Guy."

Sgt. Fochs looked up at the angry note in Joyner's voice. "Come on in, Trin. I figured you'd be popping by as soon as you read the report."

Sgt. Trinity Joyner didn't need to be told twice. Although she had barely passed the Academy's minimum height requirement, at this moment, righteous indignation made her seem larger. "Look," she snapped, "I know Jandt's getting a lot of resentment, but with Wayne's background and the way things generally go… do you think there's a chance your rookie's just looking for a chance to make himself look better by running one of my rookies down?" Before Fochs could answer, she waved a hand impatiently. "Scratch that. He's not that big an idiot. Jandt's about the only thing sparing your guy from being the lowest man on the totem pole and Wayne has to know it." She slumped into the padded swivel chair in front of Fochs's desk. "Mind if I sit?"

Fochs spread his hands in a 'be-my-guest' gesture. "I'm not sure something like that would matter to Wayne, to be honest," he mused aloud. He looked at the coffee-maker on the ledge behind him, noting that the pot he'd started was just about ready. He waved toward it. "Care for a cup?"

"I'd rather have a smoke," she admitted, "but it's too cold to go outside for it. Yeah, sure. Hit me." She watched as Fochs got up and poured out two mugs. "Black, one sugar."

Fochs nodded, reached for the Styrofoam cup of sugar packets, and tore one open.

Joyner sighed. "It's the damned waiting. How long do you figure it'll take to wrap up the investigation?"

Fochs added two creams to his own mug. "My guess is that IA's been on this for at least…" he checked his watch, "an hour, hour-and-a-half. Probably more enthusiastically than usual, for reasons you said yourself: there are a lot of personnel around here who have it in for him because his brother pulled strings to get him in."

"That's not official," Joyner countered, but with no real heat. She cupped her hands around the mug and brought it close to inhale the fragrance. "And this is why I pop in here, instead of heading out to the break room," she drawled.

"Knock yourself out," Fochs replied good-humoredly. "No, but it's the perception. And if Wayne's report is accurate, his brother is trying to keep the whole incident quiet, which means that IA is going to try extra-hard to blow the lid off. Internally, if they can help it, of course."

Joyner scowled. "The vetting didn't turn up his drinking problem. Jandt's," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Yeah, well, the vetting isn't infallible," Fochs replied. "If the guy genuinely doesn't believe he's got a problem, and the backgrounder doesn't ask the right questions, it's very possible to slip through."

Joyner tilted her head to one side. "No, sir. I don't have a drinking problem. I drink; I get drunk; I fall down. No problem." She rolled her eyes. "Saw that on a t-shirt when I worked security at a gaming convention once. It seemed a lot funnier then." She made a face. "You probably called it. About the backgrounder not being thorough enough. Jandt's was Lashley."

"Ouch." There was no need to elaborate. Most backgrounders were extremely thorough. Others were not. And Lashley was emphatically in the second category.

She sighed. "Well, thanks for letting me bend your ear. Guess I'd better go review my files. Better make sure I fix my typos before MacInnes asks for them."

"Good idea," Fochs smiled tightly. "He requested mine while we were talking."

"Great." She shook her head. "I knew having the Bat here was going to be exciting. Wish I hadn't been right. Later."

* * *

Maury Chiarello didn't have many friends in the GCPD. Most of the ones he did have were in Internal Affairs. He couldn't say he was surprised when the faces of his former colleagues—men he had once known in his early days with the force—went flat, eyes shuttered and lips tight. It still annoyed him. "Where… is… the BAC… report?" he repeated.

The desk sergeant waved vaguely at the counter behind him and the multiple piles of paperwork. "In there," he said in a bored tone. "Somewhere."

"I'd suggest doing some digging," Chiarello said evenly. "Paperwork isn't something restricted to Fourth Precinct. I need to file it, too. And I'll be sure to stress exactly how helpful you've been in my investigations."

A muscle twitched in the sergeant's cheek. Then he took a deep breath. "Santini!" he called.

Atop the low cubicle walls, an olive-skinned face poked up. "Sir?"

He took a deep breath. "Get over here." He sighed. "Got a job for you." He looked at Chiarello. "Satisfied?"

Chiarello's lips twitched. "I'll be satisfied when I have that report. Which should be within the next 24 hours, right?"

The sergeant nodded grudgingly. "You'll have it."

* * *

When Bruce reached the corridor outside the criminal law classroom, he noticed that most of his classmates were talking among themselves. He heard Jandt's name mentioned and caught more than a few furtive looks in his direction. He pretended to miss them.

Kotsopoulos approached. "The rumor mill's working overtime," he said. "Supposedly, you saw Jandt driving a Ferrari through the Wayne Foundation gala on Saturday night?"

Bruce sighed. "Don't believe everything you hear."

"Well, what _did_ happen?"

He fought back a wave of irritation. "You know I can't discuss that," he said sharply. It had been drilled into them at orientation: treat all police business as confidential and do not discuss open investigations with uninvolved parties, including fellow officers not dealing with the matter. Or, in other words, his usual taciturn silence was not only acceptable in this case, but mandatory.

Kotsopoulos took a surprised step backwards. "I'm not asking for details about the investigation. I just want to know how much of what we've heard is true."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't go into it."

"Can't blame the guy for trying," said a voice from the crowd. "After all, Wayne's already spilled the beans once. Why expect him to keep his mouth shut now?"

"Hey!" All at once, Kotsopoulos whirled about. "Lay off. It's not like we weren't all placing bets about how long Jandt would last before he was out on his ear."

"Yeah, but that didn't mean Wayne had to turn him in." It was Laramie talking. "It was a Saturday night, everyone was outside campus, and I'll bet Jandt wasn't the only one kicking back with a few beers. He was just the only one unlucky enough to be in Wayne's presence."

"But if he was driving drunk," this from Peter Norton, "then—"

"Except we don't know that he was," Dawson spoke up. "Supposedly, Wayne reported it, but how many other witnesses were there? I mean, maybe Jandt was on his way out, but what if Wayne saw him have a drink or two and jumped to conclusions. Maybe Jandt got behind the wheel, legally sober, had a fender-bender, and Wayne saw a chance to make his move?"

"In that case," Sgt. Calhoun's voice cut through the buzzing conversations like a scalpel, "the truth will come out in the investigation." Her gaze swept over each cadet in turn, lingering longest on Bruce. "As I understand it, the investigators looking into the matter are _quite_ thorough and more than capable of spotting a frame-up. The matter is under review and will be resolved presently. Meanwhile, since you all appear to have sufficient energy to indulge in conspiracy theories, you evidently have enough to expend on two hundred push-ups." She paused for a moment to allow her words to sink in. "NOW, Cadets! We don't have all day! Move it!"

As he hastened to comply, Bruce acknowledged mentally that it looked like the start of another fine Monday at the Gotham City Police Academy.

* * *

"You made better time last week, Wayne!" Craigie bellowed as he watched the cadets running on the track. "Just because Sawyer has a soft spot for you, doesn't mean I do. Step it up!"

"Yes, Sir!" Bruce acknowledged the order and kept going. The frenetic pace of the Academy was beginning to take a toll. He was in great shape, but he did have limits and the constant physical activity was leading him to reach them all too quickly.

_You give me everything you have. Then you give me more._ He'd said that to Tim years ago. The irony wasn't lost on him now.

"What's the matter, Wayne? Sprain an ankle running to file your paperwork? Being the commissioner's pet doesn't earn you any points with me, Cadet. Keep moving!"

Bruce remembered the stoicism he'd perfected in Arkham, the retorts he'd bitten back at society dinners, the monologuing he'd had to ignore when he'd gone undercover as one of Joker's or Penguin's minions. Craigie was trying to get a rise out of him and if he had the strength to rise to the bait, then he also had the strength to put on another burst of speed.

He hadn't been that surprised at the murmurs and comments from his fellow cadets. Talebearers were rarely well regarded, even when their actions were justified. Craigie's jibes about Sawyer's protection were a different matter. Although he generally wasn't interested in politics, outside of an election year, Bruce tried to keep aware of trending stories in the current media. Even before he'd met Neal Jandt at the gala, he'd known that the politician had hopes of one day taking Sawyer's place as police commissioner. If Craigie's attitude was anything to go by, it appeared that he had his supporters.

Bruce hated municipal politics. However, he had to admit that it might be in his best interest to start following them a bit more closely. He didn't think that any other commissioner would ever compare favorably with Jim Gordon, but he had found much to respect in Maggie Sawyer. He was less than optimistic that he would find the same in Neal Jandt.

* * *

That evening, Derek Powers sat in his home office and weighed his options. He'd known that sooner or later, Lester Paxton would outlive his usefulness. Was it now? He considered. He was still a very junior executive. Paxton had the contacts, the finances and the business expertise. Until a few short weeks ago, Powers would have been content to bide his time and continue to act as Paxton's protégé indefinitely. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Oh, he hadn't yet learned everything that Paxton could teach him, but, Derek reflected, his mentor's sheer hubris had brought them both to a precipice.

Derek rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. It was obvious by now that Paxton wasn't prepared to back away. Ron Chester, a man Derek had always taken for a simple corporate flunky, had somehow grown enough of a spine to walk away early and his position now was stronger than it had ever been. People who had dismissed him as an affable lightweight now saw him as some kind of visionary. From what Powers remembered from researching Chester's past, it wasn't the first time. Meanwhile, Paxton was now in disgrace, his name dragged through the media, and a court date on his horizon. And still, Derek knew his mentor saw it as no more than a temporary setback, soon to be rectified.

Powers' expression hardened. His association with Lester Paxton was a matter of record. He'd made the man godfather to his own son, even named the boy Paxton after him—and how he wished now that he'd chosen differently on both counts nine years ago! For now, that association was becoming a greater liability every day.

They _were_ at the precipice—handcuffed together—and Lester Paxton still couldn't acknowledge that there was any danger.

Which left Powers with several options. He could continue to trust Paxton, until the moment that his mentor lost his balance completely and pulled them both over the edge. He could back away now and drag Paxton back. He could cut the chain and walk away, as Chester had already done. Or… he could cut the chain and give Paxton a push.

There was still the matter of the gala. Lucius Fox had been as good as his word. He was already looking into what had transpired with the seating arrangements. Powers knew that sooner or later, his own involvement would be uncovered. Despite his measured assurances to Paxton, he was far from certain that he'd get out of this with his skin intact, unless he handed over a bigger fish to fry.

That realization decided him. He reached for the telephone. "Mr. Fox," he coaxed some deliberate apprehension into his tone. "This is Derek Powers in accounting. I'm sorry to bother you outside normal business hours, but I think I need to talk to you. All I ask is that you hear me out completely, before you say anything. It concerns the gala last Saturday and… and Lester Paxton…"

* * *

MacInnes waited for the buzz of chatter to die down before he rose to call the meeting to order. "By now, unless you've locked yourself out of your email and been out of your office for the last thirty-six hours, I presume you all know about an incident that happened this weekend."

Nods and grim expressions confirmed his assessment. "The matter is currently under investigation. Until the facts are determined, I'd like to remind everyone that Cadet Jandt is still enrolled as an Academy Cadet. I can confirm at this time, however, that he is a patient at Gotham General, expected to be there at least until Friday."

Joyner put up her hand. " _Was_ he drunk, sir?" she queried when MacInnes acknowledged her.

MacInnes's expression grew stonier. "That's unconfirmed. You'll receive the findings when the investigation closes."

"Jandt's been trying to make trouble for Wayne," Craigie rumbled. "Slacking off when Wayne's over him, deliberately trying to get him penalized. I can't help wondering whether, with the kinds of resources Wayne must have available … being Batman and all, I mean… maybe the guy had about all he could take and hit on a way to get rid of a thorn in his side."

His comment was greeted by a few derisive looks, a number of nods, and a lot of startled glances. MacInnes's expression didn't change in the slightest. "We'll be looking into that, too," he stated, "although I do feel the need to point out that, if Wayne were the vindictive sort you're painting him out to be, I think I can make out a few of us who might suddenly find ourselves facing similar allegations. Last I heard, Cinar wasn't up on charges."

"Now that's a shame," Farnham drawled.

MacInnes waited for the ripple of amusement to fade before he continued. "Furthermore, if Wayne _were_ out to settle scores, I could point out that Jandt isn't one of the people dealing out laps and push-ups. Anyone here find a drop gun in your locker recently?"

This time, the laughter lasted longer, but MacInnes had made his point.

"Meanwhile," he continued, "carry on; business as usual. You've got squad leaders now. Use them to lighten your loads. Next order of business…" he raised his eyebrows. "Who keeps depleting the cream cake supply in the staff vending room? And are you actually eating them or have you started a side business?"

* * *

"I had a thought," Paxton announced without preamble when Powers picked up the phone.

He fought the urge to make a sarcastic rejoinder. There was still a chance that Paxton could be useful; no point in jeopardizing the relationship until he knew otherwise.

"Are you there?" Paxton asked sharply.

"Yes. Sorry, Lester. My mind must have been wandering. What was that again?"

There was a long-suffering sigh. "Honestly, Derek, I was hoping you'd pay closer attention if you're as intent on climbing the corporate ladder as you claim. Dreamers seldom amount to anything."

_Says the man who hired a penny ante impersonator to try to frame Batman when he was wide awake. What's worse, Lester? To dream and never do… or to have it all and watch it slip away?_ He concentrated on the obsequious tone that Paxton expected from him. "I'll remember that, Sir." _…Along with every other condescending remark you've ever made. I can't believe I once looked up to you, you overbearing imbecile._ "You were saying…?"

Paxton chuckled. Once more, he spoke in the genial tones of a man in complete control, just as though the last month hadn't happened. "I think we underestimated Wayne's tolerance for humiliation. Anyone who's ever witnessed his behavior in board meetings would have to acknowledge that he barely understands when he's being insulted. The gala probably seemed like old times to him."

_Ah. So you're still trying to convince yourself that Wayne really IS a fop. All evidence to the contrary, of course. Well, I suppose old fantasies CAN be hard to outgrow. Still, I can't help but be amazed by your ability to see the light at the end of the tunnel and not realize that it's an oncoming train!_ Aloud, all he said was, "You could be right, Lester."

"Oh, I know I am. The subtlety of our attack went right over Wayne's head. He didn't perceive that there was any cause for offense, therefore he wasn't offended and your ploy barely rattled him."

_You're very sure of yourself for someone who wasn't even in attendance, **Les**._ Now that he realized that it was nearly time to dissolve their partnership, he was finding it harder to tolerate the smug idiot. _Hold on just a little longer. He may still be of SOME use._ "Mmmm," he grunted noncommittally. "So, what did you have in mind?"

"We might be able to bring pressure to bear on Wayne through other sources. Why don't you do some digging, Derek? Find out who he's currently close to. I'm sure that someone around him has some skeleton in their closet that they'd hate to have bandied about. Maybe one of his allies would be the best person to talk him out of planning a comeback."

Derek could feel the wheels clicking as they turned in his head. While he didn't really care whether Wayne returned to PMWE or not, and while, after yesterday's phone call to Fox, Paxton himself might be due for early retirement, he couldn't see how it would hurt to have _something_ he could hold over Bruce Wayne. "Interesting," he smiled. "I'll get on it."

"Good. Keep in touch, Derek. Tell me what you turn up."

Derek was still smiling when he hung up the phone. There was nothing like a little 'Bat-insurance,' if a man of his ambition wanted to operate in Gotham. Not that he'd necessarily need to use it. In fact, he hoped he wouldn't have to. If he played his cards right, he was probably going to come out of this mess looking like a loyal employee with the gratitude and trust of both Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox. Give him a few more years and he might be running the company in all but name—and all legally and above-board. No, the information Paxton wanted him to acquire should prove helpful, but there was very little sense in playing a trump card this early in the game. He was signing on for the long haul.

* * *

The library was nowhere near as quiet as the stereotype would paint it. Without trying, Cass could make out the murmurs of five or six conversations, the hum of the HVAC system, the whirrs and whines of two inkjet printers, the clicking of numerous keyboard buttons, and the odd cell phone ringing. All sounds, however, paled in comparison to the scratch of Dr. Arkham's pen as he reviewed her latest essay. Finally, he handed it back to her. She frowned as she tried to puzzle out his handwriting.

He was printing—and she was grateful for it, since reading cursive was another exercise in torture for her. She'd borrowed some of Barbara's old books to practice her reading, and well recalled her horror when she'd opened up _The Travels of Babar_ to find that the letters in each word had been joined together, and that some of them were so different from the letters she knew that she'd nearly wondered whether she was looking at another language altogether. When Barbara had explained about 'cursive,' Cass had only been able to think that the style was aptly named: she'd felt like cursing its inventor. After Barbara had told her that most people used that style when they wrote by hand, though, she'd wanted to cry. "So… I can read… books," she'd struggled to say, "but not… notes? Messages?"

"Most people type nowadays," Barbara had reassured her. "Of course, you might find leet-speak even worse…"

"Leet-speak?"

Barbara had shaken her head. "Concentrate on the GED first. And stay out of chat rooms until then."

It had been easy enough to agree with that instruction; she'd never gone into one in her life. Whatever this "leet-speak" was, she had no problem avoiding it for the foreseeable future. She had enough to struggle with already. Case in point: Dr. Arkham's cramped, angular, printing.

Arkham peered at her over steel-rimmed glasses. "Do you understand my comments?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

He seemed to be the only person left in the library who actually _was_ whispering.

She bent over the paper again. "Is it… better?" she ventured. "Maybe?"

"In some areas, yes." He frowned. "You cannot read my handwriting."

She lowered her head in defeat. "Not all."

He sighed. "I suppose I should have expected that."

"Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for… Cass." As always, he spoke her name as though it was an effort for him not to add the extra syllables that Barbara had told her made up the long form of her name. Cassandra. Nobody had called her Cassandra since Alfred. She sensed that Arkham would have preferred to call her thusly, but she knew why he wouldn't. When she'd encountered him in Saint Swithin's Rehabilitation Center, he'd been addressed as "Jerry" by virtually every staff member and volunteer. She had been the only one who had asked him if that was his preference, and had never forgotten to call him "Dr. Arkham," once he'd made his wish known. She'd introduced herself as "Cass" and he'd extended her that same courtesy.

She shook her head, acknowledging his words, but knowing better. "I'll practice."

"Cass."

She looked up. Was that… kindness she saw in his flinty eyes? "Doctor Arkham?"

He sighed. "Cass. Why are you requesting special accommodation when you write this test?"

She blinked. "You told me…!"

"Yes. But why?"

"You said I needed. It," she finished lamely.

"Why, Cass?"

She wasn't a mind-reader! "You said… you said… because my reading wasn't… good." At least, that had been his meaning, if not his exact words.

"Correct. You have a learning disability which makes reading difficult. In case you were wondering, it is not a reflection on your intelligence. It is simply a fact. However, since you do have a reading problem, I should have taken that into consideration before writing down my comments for your review."

She blinked. "Audio?" It was more than she could have hoped for. "You'd… do that?"

Arkham sighed. "If I had the time and the necessary equipment, I would consider it, yes," he replied. "However, as I do not… Bring your paper back to me. We will review it now, verbally. If your memory is reliable enough, that may suffice. If not," he smiled thinly, "I would presume that you've developed various means of recording and retaining information over time to compensate for your inability to keep written records. Feel free to employ them now."

She smiled. That was easier said than done: her retention techniques involved training katas and pattern dances. She could just imagine his reaction if she broke into one of those routines here in the Gotham Public Library. More to the point, she could imagine her family's reactions if she demonstrated her martial arts prowess in front of Dr. Arkham and anyone else in the vicinity. "I'll… remember," she stated quickly. She'd have to.

She handed back her paper back to Dr. Arkham and quickly got up and walked over to his chair. Together, they bent over the page once more.

* * *

That night, it was an apologetic Harrier who awaited her atop the central gargoyle of the Church of Saint Francis Xavier Cabrini. "I talked to Oracle," he said in a low voice when she touched down next to the sculpture. "She read me the riot act."

"Sorry?"

"I think that's my line," he countered. "You were right about the essay. I was steering you in the wrong direction."

Under her mask, Batgirl smiled. "Oh."

"Yeah. You know what you're doing."

Warmed though she was by his words, she couldn't let him believe an untruth. "I know what they want," she said. "HOPE I know how to give."

Harrier grinned. "I can tell you this much," he said. "Your speaking has been getting a lot better since you started working on your writing."

He'd noticed. She felt her smile widen. "Yes." Then she realized that she was reverting to type and nearly laughed.

"Harrier. Batgirl. You out there?" Oracle's voice came clearly over their comm-links.

"Here," Batgirl replied. "What? Um… is it?" she finished, feeling like a fool. But if Tim was paying attention to the way she was talking, she knew he wanted her to add more words, just like they all did. Even Bruce.

Oracle was silent for a moment. Then the comm-link crackled to life once more. "Batman thinks he knows where Hatter might be holed up," she said.

Harrier's voice turned dry. "Does that mean you're finally going to use that knockout spray on him?"

"You know better," Oracle rejoined. "Inspiration can always be passed on. Now, if I catch him sneaking off to one of the caves…" she trailed off meaningfully. Almost immediately, she continued in a businesslike tone, "Check out the old Apex Broadcasting Building. Apparently something Batman found the other night gave him reason to think Hatter's holed up there.

"On it," Batgirl said. She was already casting her grapnel. "Thanks."

* * *

It was nearly midnight when MacInnes received the IA findings. His expression soured as he read them. It appeared that Jandt's Blood Alcohol Content report was buried somewhere in a mountain of evidence waiting to be sorted. Although they were trying to locate it, neither he nor IA doubted that they were looking for a needle in an ever-growing haystack.

He supposed he shouldn't be too surprised: most crime labs were hopelessly backlogged and Gotham City's was no exception—over five hundred cases behind the last time he'd looked at the statistics, and more evidence rolling in daily. Even though he, and Sawyer, _and_ IA wanted to resolve the current situation quickly, he couldn't fault the police scientists for their priorities. There were violent criminals—dangerous repeat offenders—whom the DA's office wanted to see safely incarcerated. Enough of them were represented by tough lawyers who would be only too happy to see their clients' indictments dismissed on grounds of denial of a speedy trial.

The Jandt situation was important. It wasn't important enough to risk having mob hitmen, serial killers, and rapists walk free on technicalities.

Once the evidence they had on Jandt surfaced, they could conduct their tests. Meanwhile, MacInnes had no intention of waiting around for it to turn up. Jandt might be done with the Academy and into field training by then—if he wasn't on his individual assignment. There was a way to speed things up, not to mention a way to still any internal rumblings that the GCPA was giving Wayne an easy ride. Before this was over, he wouldn't be surprised if Jandt _and_ Wayne withdrew from the program. Part of him would actually be relieved by that prospect. It would probably cause a lot fewer headaches for all concerned. Neither man would think kindly of him for this. Then again, he was only mildly interested in what either man thought of him in general.

It was time to set things in motion. He opened his email and began composing a new message.

* * *

The building was too quiet. True, it was supposed to be deserted, but as they made their way down the stairwell, both Batgirl and Harrier grew increasingly uneasy. They should have heard _something_ besides their own breathing and the sound of their footfalls. The wind, the hum of electrical generators, mice in the walls... but there was nothing else. Harrier hated times like this. If he could hear his own movements, he was sure that everyone else could too. Despite years of stealth training, sometimes he still felt like a robin in a wind-chime factory. Batgirl seemed less disturbed; he had no idea whether it was because she knew that they weren't making as much noise as he thought or whether she just hid her concern better.

His night vision lenses picked up a faint trail and he held out an arm to hold Batgirl back. "Dust," he signed. "Shows footprints."

She nodded and held up four fingers.

He checked again. He could only make out the imprints of three different shoe styles, but he knew that Batgirl was more experienced at this sort of tracking. A moment later, he saw what she'd spotted: there were two people wearing the same type of shoe. The footprints were identical. The lengths of the strides were different.

Moving even more quietly now, they followed the tracks as they led them down two more levels, to an area where the walls they brushed against were covered in heavy plush fabric. The floor was carpeted, but, although the individual tracks were no longer discernible, the dust and mud that they'd picked up was easily spotted and followed. Harrier realized that the wall coverings meant that the area was probably soundproof. He was tempted to try his comm-link and make sure that the signal was still working, but risking cover unnecessarily didn't seem wise.

He frowned when he saw the trail suddenly end against a blank wall. There had to be a hidden area behind it, he knew. Automatically, he began running a gloved hand up and down the wall, hunting for a switch. One spot seemed to have a bit more give to it and he pressed it.

There was a harsh grating sound, deafening after the silence, and both vigilantes instinctively clapped their hands to their ears.

Something settled over them and brought them crashing to the floor. Harrier struggled to break free of the weighted net, but only succeeded in becoming more entangled. He could feel Batgirl's attempts to get loose. With every move she made, the mesh enveloping them seemed to tighten.

The lights came on and a short man in a green top hat and tails pranced forward. "Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" he chortled in his joy. He wasn't alone. Flanking him were several burly men. Each sported a brown felt derby and a vacant expression

Harrier groaned inwardly. "Let us go, Hatter!" he snapped.

The Mad Hatter took another step forward and bent down so that he was at eye level with the captive vigilantes. "Let you go? To meddle in my business? You should mind your own, my boy. If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does."

Cass tilted her head. "I don't think..." she began dubiously.

"Then you shouldn't talk!" retorted Hatter.

Harrier sighed. "Fine. You got us. Five points for Slytherin. Now what?"

"No, no," Hatter chuckled, wiggling his hands a bit. "The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time." His smile turned sinister. "And the two of you are about to have _quite_ the adventure." He snapped his fingers and his henchmen started forward.

"Bring them."


	26. 25. Dancing Toward Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Cass have been captured by the Mad Hatter. Derek Powers makes a new acquaintance. And Bruce's report isn't the only thing causing him a few headaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some scenes in this chapter draw heavy inspiration from Alice's descent down the rabbit hole in the first chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
> 
> "Dancing Towards Disaster" written by Mike Batt. Performed by Deneice Williams on the Hunting of the Snark original cast album (Dramatico, 1986, 2010).

_We could be dancing to disaster,_  
We could fall with every step we take.  
We could be dancing towards disaster,  
With every thrill that we share,  
We could be dancing to disaster  
But I get the feeling we don't care.

_There is no time left for wasting_   
_Looking back round the corners we've turned._   
_Don't count the cost or we're lost,_   
_For the bridges we have crossed have all been burned..._

— _Mike Batt, "Dancing Towards Disaster"_

**Chapter 25—Dancing toward Disaster**

Tim was no stranger to freefall. It had been a major component of being Robin—up there with martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, evidence gathering, and computers. The cave under the manor was part of a vast network of underground tunnels and caverns, which included steep cliffs and sheer drops. Long before he'd ever leaped from a skyscraper rooftop, he'd fastened his lines to stalactites and rock formations and, under Bruce's watchful eye, swung out over the chasms of the catacombs.

Experiencing freefall while immobilized in a weighted net with another person tied to him was an entirely different experience. On Hatter's orders, the enthralled henchmen had unlocked a trapdoor and shoved them through. Now they were tumbling down a dark, narrow shaft, and it seemed to be taking a lot longer than it should to hit bottom. There was a strange scent in the air—one he couldn't quite place. When he saw cupboards, bookshelves, and an empty jar of orange marmalade float past him, he suspected that the smell was some sort of hallucinogen. If so, it might also explain why he was finding it hard to focus, much less work on getting free of the tight mesh. Feeling Cass's weight pressed against his—which, under different circumstances, might have been kind of nice—didn't help. He was glad that she wasn't panicking. Blind struggling was only going to get them more tangled up.

"Do bats eat hats?" A mocking voice crackled over a speaker system. "Do _hats_ eat bats?"

Tim's eyes widened as a dim light illuminated a large porkpie hat sitting at the bottom of the shaft. The hat flipped over of its own accord, revealing a row of sharp iron teeth arranged neatly around each half of the brim. The hat seemed to give a silent hiccup. Then the two rows snapped together like a bear trap and drew apart once more. Again and again they came together in a parody of chewing. A wooden cupboard plunged into the maw and Tim heard a series of loud grinding cracks as the hat set about reducing it to sawdust.

He resolved not to scream as they continued to plummet and the hat surged upwards, rising violently toward them…

* * *

"Thanks for coming in this late, Dick. Or should that be, 'early'?" Sal Fiorini's booming voice sounded much louder at this hour, without the constant background sounds of telephones, printers, faxes, and quiet conversations. Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises was never completely empty, but at 2 a.m., it was usually just the graveyard shift in the tech support call center, the security guards, and the cleaning crew. Tonight, there was no graveyard shift; tech support was running from Metropolis. Meanwhile, tucked away in an office on the twentieth floor, Sal Fiorini, Dick Grayson, and two IT professionals were on-hand to implement the rollout of a new security system.

Dick looked up from the display on his computer terminal. "It's no trouble," he smiled. "I'm used to keeping late hours." He'd long ago given up on trying to turn in early on his nights off, unless he was actually tired. It was a lot easier for him to keep up a consistent sleep schedule—even if he was out of sync with the majority of his colleagues. As for Sal… Dick had no idea what hours he kept, but whenever there was a security issue on the premises, the stocky executive was always on the scene.

"True. I just thought you might want to be on-hand when we implement your program."

One of the IT people—a middle-aged woman whom Sal had introduced as Kristen Sanders—glanced up sharply. "That was yours?"

Dick nodded. "'Fraid so."

"Why the heck aren't you in IT?"

Dick spread his hands wide. "You'd better ask my boss about that. Sal? Why aren't I in IT?"

Sal grinned. "Because I got you before Tal Moritz snapped you up."

He turned to the other tech. "Fabritzio?"

"Metropolis confirms they're live. We're set to go."

"Good." Sal looked at Dick again. "Nervous?"

"I shouldn't be," Dick replied. "Everything worked like a charm in the test region. I've rechecked the code at least a dozen times."

"And we've gone over it at least a dozen more," Kristen chimed in. "It should go off without a hitch."

"Yes," Sal nodded. "It should. So, the good news is that even if we do run into problems, nobody's job is on the line over this. We've checked the angles. We've run the tests. Now let's take this baby live."

Fabritzio entered a line of text on his keyboard. "New building security parameters are now in play," he replied.

"And we seem to still be standing," Kristen announced with a straight face. "Um… I mean, rechecking other building systems now. So far, everything seems to be working fine, but it's going to take a couple of hours before the scan's complete."

"I'll make some more coffee, then," Sal replied. "Seeing as we're going to be here for a while."

"I can do that," Dick protested.

"So can I. You can put the next pot on, assuming we'll need it. Let's let the scan run and then we can set about getting the rest of our systems back from Metropolis." He smiled. "Nice work, people."

Dick smiled. He'd been pretty sure that his code would interface properly with PMWE's existing systems. Moving the essential ones to the backup site in Metropolis was just a precaution. The real test would be how well it would react the next time someone attempted a bomb threat, or a system hack, or some other security threat. As sure as he was that his modifications would work, he hoped that it would be a long time before they'd need to be put to the test.

* * *

Tim fought not to close his eyes as they plunged toward the hat. If he was about to die—and he had to give Hatter props for this one; he'd never considered that he might meet his demise at the hands of a ravenous porkpie—he was going to stare death in the face as he did. He and Cass passed harmlessly through the steel jaws. _Another hallucination_ , Tim thought, as they landed awkwardly on a pile of sticks and dry leaves.

"You. Okay?" Cass asked blearily. "How…?"

Tim groaned. "Yeah, Batgirl. Just fine. I think Hatter was just trying to keep us off-balance. In more ways than one."

"Yes. It worked," Cass said flatly.

Tim felt the cords dig in more tightly as Cass tried to sit up. "Don't pull too hard," he warned. "You're cutting off my circulation."

"Mine too. Sorry." She slumped back down. "Can't get loose anyway. Now what?"

"Now?" Hatter chortled, coming forward from the shadows. "Now you learn one of the deep secrets of life."

Tim raised his eyebrows. He felt Cass tense behind him as she said, "What?"

"Why, yes, my young friends," Hatter beamed. "One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others." His smile took on a sinister note as he reached into his waistcoat pocked and extracted two silicon chips. "And you… are going to do something really worth the doing… for _me_."

Hatter snapped his fingers and two of his hulking thralls approached the captives from either side. Rough hands seized hold of them, lifted them to their feet, and held them immobile, as Hatter drew closer.

* * *

A lot of the fine art of command, Derek reflected, was acting like you were in control. He knew about The Iceberg Lounge, of course. It was an open secret that its proprietor, Oswald Cobblepot, had underworld connections. This was always proclaimed with a wink and a nudge, because if Cobblepot were really as shady as reported, of course, he would have been arrested long ago. Many people believed he cultivated his reputation in order to attract a specific clientele.

Gotham criminals were often a flamboyant, colorful lot, and on any given night, Gothamites and tourists alike flocked to the lounge hoping to catch a glimpse of one. In New York and LA, it wasn't uncommon to visit upscale restaurants hoping to spot a media celebrity. This wasn't much different.

Also, Derek reflected, it wasn't that different from visiting a zoo: people liked flirting with danger—so long as there was some sort of protective wall in place. There was an unwritten rule that if the more "ordinary" clients didn't bother the "costumes," then the costumes wouldn't bother them. Anyone attempting to acquire an autograph was usually intercepted en route and politely, but firmly, asked to leave. There were stories about the fate of the last idiot who'd managed to reach Killer Croc's table. Derek suspected that they were the stuff of urban legend. All the same, he kept to his own table, sipped his mineral water, and tried not to stare when he recognized Two-Face and known crime family scion Minas Falcone seated nearby.

"Mr. Powers," a deferential voice broke into his thoughts. "I'm told you wanted to see me?"

Derek blinked. The youth standing before him didn't look a day over fourteen. His dark hair was slicked back away from his face and he wore a quilted jacket that made his stocky frame appear all the more imposing. Under his eye-patch, a jagged scar emerged to cover his left cheek from eye socket to jaw. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "You are…?"

"Fixx. _Mister_ Fixx," the newcomer replied.

"You're a little young for this crowd, aren't you?"

Fixx shrugged. "You're a little naïve for this crowd, aren't you?"

"Not naïve enough to think that I can double-cross a," he coughed, "regular patron of this establishment in a business venture," Derek retorted. "Nor to think that I can do a job on my own."

"I thought you had a business partner," Fixx replied. "Or do you have fewer qualms about double-crossing him?"

Derek wasn't offended. The youth had clearly done his homework. "That partnership is nearing dissolution," he returned. "It seems we both want different things and we're fast approaching a parting of the ways."

Fixx leaned forward. "Do tell."

Derek shrugged. "I want to have a career for the foreseeable future and, judging by my partner's actions…"

"Ah. And how do I know that in a few months time, you won't be approaching someone else with a similar offer?"

Derek smiled. "I don't like to let competent people get away from me. I don't suffer fools gladly, but then, I suspect that won't be an issue between us."

"Indeed," Fixx replied, stroking his chin. "Rest assured, Mr. Powers, I'm older than I look. If you're willing to work together despite my apparent youth…" he leaned forward and dropped his voice a few decibels, "Gus Mannheim suggested I get in touch with you regarding some… assistance?"

Derek went cold. He'd made some phone calls to people he'd had dealings with in the past to set this meeting up, but he'd never realized that they were connected to… It didn't matter. He hadn't had any qualms about doing Paxton's dirty work. He'd known exactly what kind of restaurant this was and exactly the kind of people who patronized it. Better to go in fully aware of the kind of organization he was associating with. He relaxed. "There's a… rumor going about regarding a," he smiled, "a contest. Something about a cash reward for the person who develops a specific, um, rodenticide?"

Fixx rolled his eyes. "There are always contests like that. Poor odds, high risks, no place for amateurs. Is that all you wanted?"

Derek smiled. "I think I know a way to even those odds. And I pay well for anyone willing to assume some of the risks. If you'll hear me out, Mr. Fixx, I think you'll be rather interested in the details…"

Fixx smiled thinly. "Mmm. Considering that Gus has mentioned a few times that the main reason his brother Bruno hasn't been able to get more than a toehold in Gotham is because of the local rodent problem, maybe we _can_ help each other."

"Well," Derek said, steepling his fingers, "that sounds a bit more promising. I suppose the first stage in developing the product would be studying the rodent in question. What are its habits? What are its weaknesses? I'm in a fairly good position to figure that much out, seeing that I have the opportunity to observe it on a regular basis. However, when it comes to exploiting those weaknesses," he sighed, "let's just say that creativity isn't always my strong point."

Fixx poured himself a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the table. "Interesting," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Because it can be mine. For the right price…"

* * *

Bruce was sitting in his Accident Investigation class—they'd started that module this week—when the message arrived. As soon as they broke for lunch, he headed down the long hallway to the RTO offices. He knocked smartly on the open door and entered when bidden.

"Sir. Cadet Wayne reporting as ordered, Sir!"

Sgt. Fochs gave him a quick smile that faded just as quickly. There was a sheaf of papers on his desk, which Bruce instantly recognized as his own report on Jandt's actions. Fochs picked it up and began reading through it slowly.

Bruce waited, still standing uncomfortably at attention, as the minutes dragged on. His back was itching and he was standing in a draft, but he'd been trained to withstand minor discomfort levels.

Fochs finally set the report down. "How many other witnesses were there to Jandt's drinking?" he asked without preamble.

Bruce started to reply. "Sir, it—"

"At ease," Fochs interrupted.

Bruce relaxed his posture. "Sir, it was a public affair. Any number of people might have observed his drinking. His wife and brother among them."

"The brother you claim wants to keep the entire affair quiet."

"Yes, Sir."

Fochs frowned. "Is there any chance that you misinterpreted what you saw?"

"Sir," Bruce replied flatly, "I can only report on the events that I personally observed. I saw Jandt drink. I observed that he appeared to be mildly to moderately intoxicated. I heard his wife say that he usually allows her to drive when he is under the influence, but that this time, he failed to do so. And I heard his brother request that I sweep the matter under the rug."

"Are you a supporter of Neal Jandt's policies?" Fochs asked intently.

"I," he hadn't anticipated that question and hated being caught off-guard, "I haven't made myself aware of them to date, Sir. However, it's fair to say that after his behavior on Saturday night, I will be scrutinizing those policies a good deal more closely as municipal elections draw closer."

Fochs didn't smile. "An investigation is currently underway. IA will be speaking to you within the next day or so. I don't have to tell you that all matters pertaining to this investigation, including your observations, are to be kept strictly confidential." His eyes narrowed. "If they're not part of this investigation, this isn't their business. If they're the _subject_ of the investigation," his voice grew colder, "we'll decide what is and isn't their business." He waited for Bruce's reaction. When he didn't observe one, he continued. "In other words, Cadet Wayne, you filed a report pertaining to your observations on Cadet Jandt's reactions. Do not discuss your observations _with_ Cadet Jandt. He'll have full opportunity to explain his actions and present his side."

"Understood, Sir. Question?"

"One."

"Will the fact that he was under Hatter's control be taken into consideration?"

Fochs's face turned stony. "Not your concern, Cadet. You included that detail in your report. It has been noted and referred to the investigator. If you have anything else to add, save it for your interview." He picked up the report again. "You're dismissed, Cadet."

Bruce saluted smartly and spun on his heel. He had to admit that Foch's behavior had surprised him. From the way the RTO was acting, anyone would have thought that Bruce had been the one to crash his car while under Hatter's control!

* * *

Bruce felt the familiar loathing when Farnham led them out to the firing range again. Although his handgun performance in the privacy of the Cave had improved rapidly, to the point where he was now at nearly 75 percent accuracy, things were different with an audience. Using a gun was opposed to everything he'd ever thought he stood for. Using a gun in public was more than horrifying. It was shameful.

Farnham was losing patience.

"Wayne! How hard is it for you to line up the three dots?" he demanded. "Or did they not teach you that in vigilante school?"

Maybe he only imagined that he was blushing, but his cheeks did feel as though they were burning. Of course he knew how to align his gun sights: the single dot of the front sight centered between the dots of the two rear. Pulling the trigger with the gun properly positioned was a different matter entirely. He gritted his teeth. This was all psychological; a simple issue of mind over matter. The problem was that in his mind, aiming a gun—even at a non-living target—was a serious matter.

"And your enemies were actually afraid of you?" Farnham demanded. "Your friends, sure. With aim like yours, I can see that. But how the hell did you strike terror into anyone else's heart with that kind of shooting?" He shook his head wearily. "Get back in line."

Bruce obeyed, muttering darkly under his breath.

"Repeat that, Cadet Wayne."

Bruce fought down a surge of anger. "Nothing, Sir."

"That didn't sound like nothing, Cadet. I gave you an order. Are you going to obey, or am I going to assign this class twenty-five laps for your insubordination?"

He might well assign them anyway if Bruce repeated his comment aloud, he knew. Still, he squared his shoulders and replied. "Sir, I was commenting that when I faced my opponents in the past, I used batarangs, not guns."

Farnham's lips twitched. "Batarangs, Cadet?"

What the hell was so amusing? "Yes, Sir."

The twitch became a full-blown smile. "Well, in that case, Cadet, you're in luck. We've got some of your gear in Central Supply." His gaze scanned the room slowly.

Someone coughed and Farnham pounced. "Cadet Norton!" he hastily scribbled an authorization on a notepad. "Report there and give the clerk this requisition. Bring back those… batarangs for the prima donna billionaire, over here!"

As Norton hurried to obey, Farnham called after him, "Meet us outside Simulation Room B!"

* * *

Simulation Room B looked like a barn from the outside. Farnham didn't swipe his key-card to unlock it until an out-of-breath Norton returned with a cloth-wrapped package tucked under his arm.

They filed wordlessly into a darkened hall. Then Farnham flicked a switch and they looked around warily.

They were standing at the edge of an indoor junkyard. Before them stretched a sand-and-gravel floor that encompassed an expanse of junked cars, oil drums, crumbling stone walls, and piles of trash.

"Normally," Farnham said smiling, "we wait until you're used to the range and the other simulator before we let you try out this playground. But seeing as batarangs would ruin the screens in Sim A, I figured we could let Cadet Wayne show us how things are done."

He turned to Bruce. "The task is simple. Cross the simulation ground and make it to the exit. As you make the attempt, you'll encounter hostiles and friendlies. Take down the hostiles, spare the friendlies, and get out as fast as you can." He handed Bruce the packet. "Any questions?"

Bruce unfolded the cloth. It was a medium-sized burlap sack. He reached inside and pulled out two stacks of batarangs, neatly tied into packs of ten. He should have realized, he thought with some dismay. For over a decade, he'd been incorporating tracking devices into the 'rangs. It had made cleanup easier and helped perpetuate the whole 'urban legend' myth. When GCPD picked up the 'rangs at a crime scene, he simply followed the tracker, slipped into the evidence room (or wherever else they were being kept), and retrieved his property. Of course, some had inevitably ended up in civilian hands, but then, there were also some decent replicas available for purchase on F-Bay. The authentic ones got lost in the shuffle. At any rate, a stray batarang in a private home hadn't been a concern. Batarangs in an evidence locker, where they might be studied, catalogued, and possibly reach the attention of an organization like Checkmate or Task Force X had always been a bigger worry in the early days. Once he got on the radar of outfits like that, he'd known they wouldn't rest until they'd found out who he was and tried to force him to join up. The last thing he'd wanted was to be roped into some organization and compelled to follow someone else's rules.

He grimaced. He'd never had much appreciation for irony. The little he had was wearing thinner every day.

The batarangs he held now, Bruce realized, were from his early days. They were lighter, and the weight distribution was a bit different from that of the models he'd taken to using later on. Something must have showed in his expression, because Farnham took a step closer. "Problem, Cadet?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "No, Sir."

"Proceed."

He met his first hostile before he'd take five steps. As soon as he flung the 'rang, he knew his aim was off. The wing-point struck a glancing blow to the wooden cut-out's hand. Had it been a real foe, the wound wouldn't have been more than a scratch. He pressed on.

His eyes narrowed when the ground gave a fraction more under his foot than it should have and he dove behind a pile of crushed cars for cover. Three hostiles—no, two and a friendly—popped up. Two more batarangs promptly dispatched the hostiles.

By the time he'd thrown his fifth batarang, the weight was sitting properly in his hand again. And by the time he'd covered a third of the distance, he'd forgotten about Farnham, forgotten that he had an audience, forgotten that this was supposed to be some stunt to take him down a peg or two. He kept one eye fixed on the door at the far wall, even as he devoted the majority of his focus to the life-sized wooden cut-outs that popped up without warning, taking care not to attack the ones painted like police officers or civilians. He moved cautiously, but with purpose, using every scrap of available cover. When he had to come out in the open, it was with a lightning-fast dash that took him from one set of shadows to another.

After what seemed an eternity, he came to the end of the sandy gravel of the simulation zone. He stepped back onto concrete flooring and touched the door at the far wall.

"Go through the door, come around, and come back in through the front," Farnham called out.

Bruce acknowledged the order. It was chilly outside and he covered the distance at a jog. When he pushed open the door, he was greeted by a mix of smiles and stunned stares. He realized that he was still holding three batarangs and he held them out to Farnham uncertainly.

Farnham took them with a fleeting smile. "You still need to qualify with a handgun," he rumbled. "However, if you can come within 20 seconds of your time for today's exercise, you'll pass with flying colors. I'll see you at the range tomorrow." He looked around.

"That goes for all of you!" he bellowed. "Dismissed!"

Bruce spun on his heel, but not before he caught the grudging approval in the firearms instructor's eyes. Then Kotsopoulos slapped him on the back and he managed to stifle his combat reflex.

* * *

Parade drills were next. Bruce hated them. They made him feel like a trained monkey. He'd never exactly been one to keep in step with everyone else. At least, he told himself, his problem was mostly psychological. Some of the other cadets had found it physically difficult to coordinate their moves. They were finally coming together. Which meant, Bruce thought, that Severin was due to change the routine.

"Right," Severin snapped when they finished the last drill. "How many of you think you know your way around a horse?"

Bruce and three others raised their hands.

"Brenner, Norton, Parsons, Wayne. Tomorrow at this time, the four of you will report to the Academy stables. Captain Alanguilan will instruct you in mounted drills for the next two weeks. Don't expect it to be a vacation just because I won't have charge of you. Dismissed."

When they headed back to the lockers to get changed for physical training, a messenger was waiting with an envelope for Bruce. When he opened it, he found that he was ordered to report to the administration building after his second class tomorrow. There was no reason specified, but Bruce had a strong suspicion it had something to do with the Jandt investigation.

* * *

Bruce was barely aware of the drive home. He was half-convinced that he could have done it in his sleep, although he wasn't fool enough to attempt it. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath and sleep, but he had the Criminal Justice quizzes to grade, a report to write, and a Search and Seizures test to prepare for. This was on top of the normal material to review, to ensure that he would have an answer ready if one of the instructors called on him. He knew that they threw him harder questions and expected more thorough answers. Most of the time, he didn't mind. It kept the class interesting for him. However, with everything that had happened since Saturday night, he wouldn't have minded catching a break.

He came home to a dark and quiet house. He supposed that Selina was off on some errand. He sighed. Once in a while, it wasn't terrible to have the house to himself, although he was glad it didn't happen often. Farnham wasn't going to let up on the gun handling, he knew. He might as well work in a drill now. He headed for the cave.

To his surprise, Selina was downstairs, using her whip to perform a modified trapeze routine, while Helena looked on from the fenced-in play area. His lips twitched. If anyone had suggested that he'd one day have a play area in the cave, fenced or otherwise, he probably would have laughed—in costume.

"Bruce!" Selina's greeting interrupted his thoughts. "I'll be right down!"

So saying, she snapped her whip and coiled it around one of the trapeze swings, then swung off her perch and sailed across the training area. As she reached the lowest point of her arc, she jerked the whip loose and flipped gracefully to the mat below, planting her feet solidly for the landing. As she walked toward him, however, Bruce could see the tension in her expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked, taking an unconscious step toward her.

She sighed. "Harrier and Batgirl didn't come back from patrol. They were following up a lead on Tetch. Barbara told me they both had their comm-links on, but their last known location had them heading into a shielded area. They were going to the lower levels of the old Apex Building. That far underground, communications—"

"—can be erratic," Bruce nodded. "Yes, I know. But if they haven't come back and they were on Hatter's trail…"

"Yeah." She clasped her hands together behind his neck and leaned forward to kiss him. "I'll be careful," she said. "Watch Helena? Jim's over at Barbara's now, but he said he can look after her when he comes back, if you need to study."

"I do need to study," Bruce admitted. "But I can do that down here for a bit. And she should be going to bed in about an hour, at any rate."

"She should," Selina smiled. "But she might have her own ideas about that one."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "She'll just have to accept that she can't have everything she wants."

He glowered when Selina let loose a peal of laughter as she headed back upstairs.

* * *

The signal hadn't gone up, but Batman didn't need it to know that there was trouble. He was sitting on the balustrade of an Old Gotham apartment building, looking down at the street below, and trying not to worry. Tim and Cass were formidable fighters on their own. Together, they should have proved the equal of most foes. Their vanishing without explanation did not bode well. Oracle had been monitoring radio frequencies and keeping a close watch on the Iceberg's activity, hoping to hear some word of what might have happened to them. He was sure that they were alive. If they weren't, the news would have spread fast—stuff like that didn't stay quiet for long. No, he was sure that they were alive. He just didn't know what had happened to them. He swung up, flipped, and landed solidly atop the balustrade. It was a good deal wider, he thought absently, than the high-wire he'd learned to walk as a toddler. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he started walking, balancing on the edge, fifteen stories high.

If it had been Bruce, he wouldn't have worried. Well… no. He would have, but it would have been a different kind of worry. Bruce wasn't exactly in the habit of checking in—something that had driven him crazy when he'd been Robin. Bruce hadn't let him patrol on school nights, and Dick had often fallen asleep while waiting to hear his mentor's tread on the stairs, or his voice in the study. First thing in the morning, he'd slowly ease open the door of Bruce's room and peek in to reassure himself that, yes, Bruce had made it back safely. If he wasn't there, Dick's next stop was the cave. Usually, his search would end there. If Bruce hadn't made it upstairs, he'd either be hunched over a computer in the cave, or lying on a cot getting patched up by Alfred.

But then there were the times that Bruce didn't make it back for days, sometimes more than a week at a stretch. There were times when it was unavoidable. League business sometimes took him outside the solar system. There'd been that one time when someone had knocked him out and stuffed him into a baggage car on a train bound for the West Coast. By the time Bruce had come to, he'd been hours outside of Gotham and unsure how to get back. Dick privately suspected that he'd been too embarrassed to call for help. But there were the times that Bruce had decided that there was something he needed to investigate, gone off the grid, and left them wondering whether he was alive or dead. As terrifying as those days had been, at the back of Dick's mind, there had usually been a calm, rational voice, saying "This is Bruce. This is what he always does." And later, when he was older, it had been, "Why does Bruce always do this?" He'd hated it, but he'd also accepted that sudden disappearances and long stretches of silence were part and parcel of knowing Bruce.

They weren't part and parcel of knowing Tim or Cass. He was worried about them.

All at once, he tensed, realizing that he wasn't alone. Reaching into his belt for a batarang, he spun and leaped lightly to the rooftop. Then he saw who it was. "Hey. I was wondering what happened to you…"

* * *

Bruce rubbed his forehead and reached for the next test paper. He positioned the page next to the answer key and set to work. It surprised him a bit that, in this day and age, the multiple choice papers were still graded manually. He would have thought that the GCPA would have computerized the process. Perhaps, he thought, it was a deliberate ploy to pile more work on the squad leaders. He wasn't even sure if he was joking about it; every aspect of the academy seemed to serve a dual purpose: to create excellent officers and to weed out anyone who couldn't handle it. He rubbed his forehead again. The first five answers on the key were A-A-C-C-D. And on the test paper, it was... A-A-C-C—

"DADDY!"

Bruce closed his eyes as his daughter's merry squeal interrupted his train of thought. He looked up and waved back. "Hi, Helena."

Helena beamed. "Out'ide?" she implored, trying to scramble over the security gate. "Out'ide?"

A breath of fresh air would be welcome, but he didn't have time. "Not now, Helena."

"Out'ide!" she repeated.

Bruce shook his head wearily and went back to the paper. The next answer was a B and he marked it wrong. Then he realized that he'd actually been looking at question 6. That one _was_ a B. He reached for the white-out, wondering whether the error would cost him additional push-ups. He didn't care if it did, not really, but he hoped that it wouldn't cause a communal punishment for the rest of the class. Calhoun would probably come up with some justification, something like, 'when the ranking officer messes up, sometimes the people under him suffer too.' It sounded like the kind of thing she'd say, he thought darkly.

A bell-tone drew his attention to the security array, but he relaxed when he saw who it was. "Selina's out looking for you," he said, when Tim approached. "Did you let Oracle know that you'd made it back?"

Tim didn't answer.

With some irritation, Bruce swiveled his chair around to face him. "Tim?"

Instinct made him throw himself to one side. The H-shaped throwing knife missed him by less than a millimeter. As Bruce spared a disbelieving glance for the blade now-embedded in his chair at throat-level, he registered that Tim was already tossing another.


	27. 26. Turning Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mad Hatter has the Bat Family in his sights! Meanwhile, the Jandt investigation picks up and trouble may be looming for Selina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Back on the Savage Streets" by Gary Scott and Dean Pitchford. Recorded by Nia Peeples in the Fame episode "Savage Streets" (aired November 16, 1985).

_You always fight the hardest  
With your back against the wall _

_Back on the savage street_  
I'm ready to make my stand  
I'll stand on my own two feet  
Once again 

_No more room_  
Tables are turning  
I can't turn back 

**Chapter 26—Turning Tables**

If Batman's combat reflexes had been a fraction slower, he would have been dead. Batgirl's attack had come virtually without warning. Some instinct made him sidestep. A split-second before her blow would have connected, she overbalanced and stumbled, but recovered quickly, landing on her hands and retaliating with a sweeping kick.

It caught Batman in the side and he fell, catching hold of her foot and pulling her down after him. They grappled together, rolling back and forth on the rooftop, more evenly matched than Batman would have believed possible. Both were quick and agile. Batman was stronger physically, but Batgirl could read his moves before he knew he was making them. At least, he realized as he deflected yet another blow, that was how it normally worked; but she was uncharacteristically off her form tonight.

She jabbed her fingers toward his eyes and he revised that thought, even as he evaded. She wasn't off enough. Still, he reminded himself as he tried unsuccessfully to pin her for the third time and took a knee to the abdomen, there was a difference between knowing what he was planning and being able to stop him. As the thought ran through his mind, Batgirl broke through his hold and rolled on top of him. His head knocked against the concrete and he bit his tongue hard as Batgirl pressed her advantage, sitting high on his chest. He tasted the metallic salty tang of his own blood and he curled up, hooking one foot around her neck to peel her off. She landed on her side with a gasp and he flipped to his feet before she could recover.

To his surprise, Batgirl pressed both hands, not to her throat, but to her head. "Fight me," she croaked.

Batman froze. "Batgirl?" He knew she'd been on Hatter's trail at last check-in and it hardly took a genius to figure out why she was attacking him now. But if she was resisting his control… Batgirl lunged forward again and he forgot about analyzing her performance and twisted, barely managing to deflect her kick to his kneecap by raising his leg so her foot slid down his shin.

She fell back for a moment, then sprang, hands extended in a maneuver that he hadn't seen since… Goode Ole Bernie! He managed to grasp her wrists, holding her hands inches away from his chest. If she'd actually followed through with that move, it would have stopped his heart instantly. "What are you—?"

"FIGHT!" she snapped. Then she flinched, as if from a blow and gasped in pain. With a snarl, she twisted out of his hold and reached toward him again.

Batman flipped her over one shoulder and dropped her heavily to the ground. As she landed on her back, she tugged at his arm and pulled him down after her. A groan escaped her as his full weight slammed into her chest.

Batman's eyes widened. That was an amateur move, and Batgirl was definitely no amateur. The harder she fought, the worse she got—that was it. It had to be. He aimed a blow at her collarbone, calculated not to incapacitate, but to hurt. Batgirl stifled a cry at the impact, but still strained to ram her head into his nose. She fell back with a gasp, as he dodged. She struggled like a wildcat but, although she nearly broke loose a couple of times, he maintained the hold. "Sorry about this," he muttered. He snapped a pair of cuffs around her wrists, then passed a second pair of cuffs over the connecting chain and secured her ankles.

Batgirl continued to struggle, even though they both had to know that she wasn't getting free until he released her. "Get. It. Off," she gritted, still fighting hard. "Cowl."

"I'm just getting to that," Batman nodded. "O," he spoke hastily into his comm-link, "Batgirl's been hatted. I need to get her cowl off. Can you check if there are any cameras pointed my way and mess up the recordings if there are?"

"If they're on a network," Barbara's voice confirmed. "But you're SOL if someone across the street is just taking candids."

"I'll have to take that chance," Batman acknowledged. He loomed over Batgirl, enveloping her in his cape. Doing his best to keep her concealed from any prying eyes, he felt for the seam of her cowl and slowly pulled it up with one hand as he felt for the controlling chip with the other. "Got it."

Batgirl sighed with relief, as the small disc skittered to the concrete.

"You okay?" Batman asked, pulling her cowl back down.

She nodded. "When I fought," she said slowly, "he… couldn't control… well. Until I stopped."

Batman nodded slowly. "Those chips overwrite normal thought processes," he mused aloud. "But your thought patterns, especially when you fight, aren't normal. That probably helped you shake off some of his mind control." He bent down to unlock the cuffs. "Where's Harrier?"

Rubbing her wrists, Batgirl tilted her head toward him. "Um…"

His eyes widened. "Oh, no."

* * *

It took Bruce scant seconds to realize that Tim wasn't in control of his actions. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn't help his immediate situation. He couldn't activate the Cave's defenses with Helena down here. Although the gas and lasers were designed to be non-lethal, they were also meant to be used on adults. He couldn't take the risk of Helena getting injured in the crossfire. As he leaped and twisted to avoid Tim's barrage of throwing knives, he also realized that he needed to lure Tim away from the play area entirely, before he—or Hatter—became aware of his daughter's presence.

There were now three H-shaped knives embedded in his chair. Bruce grabbed them, tensed, and took a running leap toward his assailant. As he'd expected, Tim dodged his flying kick, and Bruce landed behind Tim. Immediately, he pivoted and flung one of the knives. Then he darted into the narrow space between two of the Crays and quickly ran his hand over the rough stone wall, feeling for the right spot. He allowed himself a fleeting smile as he found the niche. He was right. He _had_ stashed a cache of batarangs here years ago, and they hadn't been disturbed in the intervening time. He grabbed the weapons hastily.

As Bruce had hoped, as soon as he began hurling the 'rangs, Tim turned and raced deeper into the cave. With a grim smile, Bruce donned a pair of infrared goggles and grabbed a metal canister resembling a fire extinguisher from a recess in the cave wall. Even if Tim made it to the maze of catacombs beneath the main cave, Bruce could track him now.

Once out of the computer hub, he slowed down. He wasn't sure of the extent of Hatter's control, but he was damned if he was going to run blindly into an ambush. He considered for a moment. Then he quickly opened an equipment locker and grabbed a few key items, checking to make sure that Tim wasn't doubling back.

He was nearly at the passage that led from the main cave to the catacomb network when he heard the telltale scuff of a rubber sole on a sandy floor. Instinctively, Bruce leaped back, whirled, and hit the trigger on the metal canister.

Tim evaded the spray and sprang for another attack, but this time, Bruce was ready. A second spray quickly encased the youth in quick-hardening sticky foam.

"Hold still," Bruce urged, even though he knew he was wasting his breath. He tore Harrier's hood back in a swift, fluid motion and quickly removed the control chip.

Tim blinked. He tried to stretch, then looked down in puzzlement at the foam cocoon surrounding him. "Bruce?" he asked. "What's going on?"

* * *

"You're clear," Barbara said, after what seemed like an eternity. "Once Harrier got onto the manor grounds, your jamming field kept Hatter from sending new commands _and_ blocked his seeing what was going on."

Tim rubbed his head, frowning as he looked at Barbara's face on the vid-screen. "But I didn't snap out of it when I got here," he said. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Barbara nodded. Her smile grew wider as she turned to Bruce, who was holding Helena protectively in his arms. "You weren't receiving any new orders; you were just acting on your last instructions. You _didn't_ let him know about Helena," she stated. "She's fine."

Bruce acknowledged her reassurance with a curt nod. "Barbara," he said slowly. "If Tim faced me…"

"Yes," Barbara confirmed. "Cass squared off against Dick. They're both okay."

Bruce exhaled. "As of this moment," he pronounced, "Hatter gets top—"

The vid-screen split into two. Batman's face filled the second half. "He's already getting top priority, Bruce," he announced. "He's had it since the day you registered at the Academy."

"And he remains at large," Bruce pointed out, not mollified in the slightest.

"Not for much longer. We've already found two of his hideouts. He's running out of options. Not to mention allies able to think for themselves. We'll get him."

Bruce nodded curtly. "Send me what you have. I'll review it. Bruce out." He closed the connections without waiting for acknowledgment.

In a satellite cave, Dick looked at Barbara over his own vid-screen. "I know you're on top of this," he said, his tone light, but his expression serious. "However, if there's anything else you can think of that we aren't doing to bring Hatter in, do it."

Barbara nodded. "You're okay, right?"

"Yeah. I took a couple of pressure point strikes that'll hurt for a bit, but it could have been a lot worse."

"Tell me about it," Barbara smiled. "Tonight. Over a home-cooked meal."

"If I'm awake that long…"

Barbara clucked sympathetically and closed the channel.

* * *

Bruce was still thinking about how badly things could have gone wrong when he arrived at the academy the next morning. There was a quiz first period that he hadn't studied for, but luckily, they'd finished the Criminal Code module the week before and the current subject was Crime Scene Management. Bruce probably could have answered questions on that material coasting on three hours sleep, in a booby-trapped funhouse, while Harley and Ivy tag-teamed him.

It was just as well. The instructor spent the rest of the period discussing the next chapter in a dry monotone that sent nearly a dozen cadets to stand at the back of the room to avoid dozing off. (Bruce had initially been amused to read an instruction printed in the Academy handbook that advised cadets to do precisely that, in case of drowsiness. After the first week, he'd realized that it was there for a reason.)

Then the bell rang and Bruce squared his shoulders, made sure his collar was straight and his boots polished, and made his way to the administration building. He suspected that the ordeal awaiting him would not be pleasant and, although he wouldn't have said he was nervous, precisely, it was fair to say that he wasn't looking forward to this meeting.

* * *

Chiarello was waiting for him, along with another man whom Bruce had never seen before. Again, they left him standing at attention while they made a show of reading what appeared to be his report. They conferred among themselves before finally turning back to look at Bruce.

"Cadet Wayne," the other man said without cracking a smile, "Detective O'Flaherty, and I believe you know my colleague, Detective Chiarello."

Bruce knew that a nod wouldn't suffice. "Yes, Sir."

"We've just been going over your report," O'Flaherty said, his mouth still a taut line. "But I'd like to hear you tell us again."

The fact that Bruce understood why the exercise was necessary didn't make him resent it less. They wanted to be sure that his oral accounting of the incident dovetailed with the report he'd submitted. They'd be ready to pounce on any omission or deviation. In his own detective work, he'd done much the same thing: comparing sworn statements and testimonies, looking for discrepancies. He'd rarely had the witnesses standing in front of him when he did so, though he'd been known to cross-examine them on occasion. If he was sure that they were lying, he'd usually dangle them over the side of a building. He fought not to smile. His methods were harsh, but at least his suspects knew where they stood with him. That was more than he could say for his current situation.

Resigned, he went over the details again. He'd seen Jandt at the bar.

"How many times?" Chiarello demanded.

"Once, Sir."

"Did you see him drink?" That was O'Flaherty.

"I did, Sir."

"How much did he have to drink?"

They seemed to be taking turns. Bruce faced Chiarello. "I don't know, Sir. I personally witnessed him down two shots."

"Of…?"

The 'sirs' were beginning to leave a sour taste in his mouth, but he forced himself to include them. "Sir, the liquid was amber in color."

"Might it have been something non-alcoholic? Say, cola or root beer?

That was two questions in a row from O'Flaherty. "Anything is possible, Sir," he admitted, "although it's been my experience that non-alcoholic beverages are seldom served in shot glasses."

Chiarello scribbled something on a lined foolscap pad. "How much did you have to drink that night?"

"In total, Sir," Bruce replied, "I had two glasses of club soda, but nothing alcoholic."

"Nothing?" O'Flaherty's eyebrows shot up. "Was it hard for you to refrain?"

"No, Sir," Bruce returned. "I don't drink at parties."

"When did that change?"

"It never changed, Sir," Bruce kept his tone even. "I do not drink at parties."

"Did you have anything before the party?" Chiarello asked.

"No, Sir."

"Wait," O'Flaherty said, "so you're telling me that at all those society parties, you were tossing back soda water?"

"Or ginger ale, Sir," Bruce replied.

"Are you currently taking any medications known to impair judgment, cause drowsiness, or in any way impact your vision?" This from Chiarello.

"No, Sir."

"Do you wear eyeglasses or contact lenses?"

"No, Sir." Chiarello was being a good deal less belligerent, and as annoying as the questions were, Bruce could see the point of them.

O'Flaherty wrote something down. "So Cadet Jandt left the party early and you followed him."

"No, Sir," Bruce shook his head. "I didn't follow him. There," he took a deep breath, "there was a separate incident. A waiter spilled soup on me. I went outside the gala to get some air in the plaza. I did not see whether Cadet Jandt left the hall before or after I did. However, while I was outside, I heard a woman—later identified as Michelle Jandt—scream, and witnessed Cadet Jandt's accident."

Chiarello nodded. "Then what happened?"

Bruce went on to describe how he had administered emergency first aid, confirmed that he'd discovered a mind control chip in Jandt's hat…

"Where is that chip now?" O'Flaherty demanded.

"Sir, I turned it over to Officer Eugene Wood, who arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. His badge number is provided in the report before you."

"You weren't tempted to keep it to run your own tests?" Chiarello asked.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Sir, I did not remove or withhold evidence from a crime scene."

"Wasn't what I asked, Cadet."

So, Chiarello was still trying to see if he'd tell a lie to protect himself. Bruce sighed inwardly. "Sir, the thought did run through my mind, but I did not act upon it."

Chiarello nodded. "So you did your best to stabilize Cadet Jandt until the police and paramedics arrived, gave your statement, and left. Is that about it?"

Bruce frowned in thought for a moment. "Sir, I also advised the paramedics of the symptoms which Cadet Jandt was then exhibiting and informed them of the first aid procedures I'd already administered."

"Was that before or after you gave your statement?" O'Flaherty asked.

"Before, Sir."

The questioning continued for another few minutes, as the two investigators went back over questions they'd already asked. Bruce stuck to the facts as he'd reported them, adding additional details only when pressed to elaborate. Finally, both men stood up.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Cadet Wayne," O'Flaherty said formally. "We'll be in touch."

"Dismissed, Cadet," Chiarello rumbled.

Bruce saluted smartly, spun on his heel and exited. Although the questioning had ended for now, he strongly suspected that the ordeal wasn't over yet.

* * *

Captain Alanguilan was considerably shorter than he'd seemed on horseback. He surveyed the four cadets standing before him and his lips curled into a tight smile. "Bring your Class C uniforms with you tomorrow," he ordered. "You'll need to change into them before you start mucking out the stalls. While there are full-time grooms on staff," he continued, "you are expected to know how to care for your horse, and most officers in our mounted unit do so as time permits. Therefore, for the duration of this training, each one of you will be assigned a horse. It will be your responsibility to feed and brush that horse and keep its stall clean. The stable grooms will report to me if this is not done." His eyes narrowed. "Three years ago, one cadet attempted to bribe a groom to do his job for him. Do not try this. A withdrawal from the Academy will look a damned sight better on your record than an expulsion. This is now your last class of the day, because there is no way that you'll be able to clean up and make it to Drill Sergeant Craigie's class on time. Don't get too excited. He's expecting you to continue his regimen on your own time and be able to keep up when this is over and you rejoin his class. Are there any questions?"

The cadets were silent.

Alanguilan nodded. "Right. If you'll follow me, I'll introduce you to you new partners."

* * *

A couple of minutes later, Bruce found himself standing before a chocolate-brown gelding named Shilling. Bruce regarded the horse for a moment. Liquid brown eyes stared back into his. Then, he slowly eased the stall door open and stepped inside.

Shilling nickered and Bruce spoke softly to him for a few moments before resting his hand on the big gelding's neck. The horse remained calm as Bruce continued talking to him, all the while gently stroking his neck. After a moment, Shilling turned to sniff at him and Bruce blew into his nostrils. The horse breathed in deeply, then responded in kind.

"Good boy," Bruce whispered, still stroking the horse's neck. "Good boy."

He stepped out of the stall for a moment and took a brush from the tack box. Shilling nickered again when Bruce returned. He stood still, allowing Bruce to brush his neck and body. When Bruce was about to move on to the legs, he sensed a presence behind him and turned to see Alanguilan watching him, his expression unreadable.

"Nice work, Cadet," the captain rumbled. "When you finish grooming, get him saddled and lead him out to the corral."

Bruce acknowledged the order and Alanguilan moved on to the next stall.

He allowed himself a brief smile and continued brushing.

Norton was already in the corral when Bruce got there. He was leading another brown horse, a mare with a white star on her forehead. For once, Norton seemed completely relaxed. "They've been taking good care of this beauty," he remarked, scratching the horse's neck. "I think we're going to get along just fine. How about yours?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "We've become acquainted," he said.

"He likes you," Norton grinned. He glanced down self-consciously. "My dad fosters horses," he explained. "He's a vet for a rescue organization. I grew up on a farm just on the edge of Somerset, and we usually had one or two horses around who needed a bit more care before they could be permanently placed. I learned how to look after them early."

"It shows," Bruce nodded again.

Angelina Parsons, approached them leading a seal-brown gelding. "Oh, good," she beamed, looking at Norton. "Then you're probably the person to talk to if I get stuck." She sighed. "I learned to ride at summer camp, but it's been a few years. I've forgotten a lot and," she stroked her horse's forelock, "I think Coco knows it."

"Brenner's taking a while," Bruce remarked.

Parsons rolled her eyes. "I think Brenner's experience with horses is 'you put a quarter in the slot and it goes back and forth for two minutes.' Seriously, the guy held out his hand to his horse like it was a dog."

"Then, why…?" Norton started to ask, when Chuck Brenner finally appeared, leading a brown mare with one white sock. Alanguilan followed close behind.

"We're going to spend the rest of today and tomorrow," he stated without preamble, "finding out if you know as much as you think you do. If you don't, you can either rejoin the rest of your troop under Drill Sergeant Severin or you can come in before and after classes and on weekends and learn on your own time. Am I being clear?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

He nodded curtly. "Mount up."

Three cadets obeyed. Brenner's horse sidestepped and the cadet overbalanced and let out a yelp as he fell backwards and landed on his rear.

Bruce closed his eyes in sympathy. Norton winced. Parsons hid a smile behind her hand.

Alanguilan rolled his eyes. "We're waiting, Cadet," he snapped.

Brenner gulped and steeled himself for a second attempt.

* * *

Before the class ended, Bruce knew that he was going to be going home later for the rest of the week and possibly returning on the weekend. Alanguilan had made it clear that, as squad leader, it was Bruce's duty to assist those cadets under his command when they faltered, and Brenner was definitely faltering in this class.

There was no help for it. Neither he nor Brenner wanted to come in earlier. They already needed to in order to care for their horses—grooming them would probably take a good half hour on its own, to say nothing of mucking the stalls. If they rode first thing in the morning, the horses would also need to be cleaned after the exercise. And once that was done, he and Brenner would still need to shower, change into their Class A uniforms, and report for their first class by seven hundred hours. At least, in the afternoon, they could take as long as they needed, though they would still have their regular assignments to complete when they got home.

"I could always go back to the regular class," Brenner said reluctantly. They were cleaning their horses after the training exercise. "I shouldn't have put my hand up in the first place."

Bruce looked up from rubbing Shilling down. " _Have_ you ridden before?"

"Yeah," Brenner sighed. "On nature expeditions where they go slow and the saddles just about come with seat belts and safety bars. I love those," he admitted.

Bruce fought back the urge to roll his eyes at that. "Captain Alanguilan could have ordered you back," he pointed out. "He didn't. Evidently, he's leaving the choice up to you."

"Or he just wants me to admit I'm out of my league."

Bruce set his brush down. "That's one way to look at it," he nodded. "Of course, you could make that argument for virtually every aspect of the Academy. Again," he said, scratching Shilling between his ears, "you volunteered for a challenge. You can choose to back down or you can choose to rise to the occasion."

Brenner shook his head. "What would you do if you were me?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't back down. If you want to do this, I'll help you. If you don't," he deliberately walked off to return the brushes to the tack box, "I have assignments to grade and I'll be able to get to them earlier."

"But you don't mind sticking around… Squad Leader?"

Bruce exited Shilling's stall and leaned into the adjacent one, where Brenner was brushing his horse's mane. "If you're prepared to put in the effort and the hours," he stated, "then so am I. It _is_ going to be more work, don't delude yourself. However, if you've decided to rise to the challenge, I'm willing to…" he extended his hand, "boost you along?"

Brenner took a deep breath. Then he shook Bruce's hand. "Okay," he exhaled. "Okay, let's do this."

"Tomorrow afternoon," Bruce nodded. "One word of advice. If you don't have a topical heat rub in your medicine cabinet already, pick one up tonight. Your muscles will start to stiffen in a few hours and it'll help."

"Yes, sir," Brenner nodded. "Thank you."

* * *

Batman folded his arms and loomed over the mahogany desk, his cape billowing wide behind him. "Why am I not convinced?"

Oswald Cobblepot reached into the box before him and deliberately extracted a slender cigarette. Under Batman's watchful glower, he inserted it into an elegant holder. As he picked up a silver lighter, however, Batman's hand came down over his.

"You really enjoy living dangerously, don't you, Ozzie?" he demanded.

Cobblepot struggled vainly in Batman's grip. "Let's just say that I'd prefer my air be fouled by a pollutant of my own choosing," he snarled.

"When was the last time you saw Jervis Tetch?"

"I have _no_ idea," Cobblepot sniffed. "Business has been _rather_ good, lately, and with so many customers, I really haven't had time to greet them one by one. I suppose you could talk to my wait staff," he mused. Then he shook his head. "Ah, but there's such a high turnover rate in the service industry. You may find it difficult to locate anyone who's been here long enough to even know who that fellow is, much less have crossed paths with him." He sighed. "And now, I suppose you're going to try to intimidate me with one hand, while you bug my office with the other."

Batman shook his head, smiling. "No need, Ozzie. The one I left last time is still working just fine. I'll be back soon to see if you or your wait staff remember anything. Anything at all. Because if you don't, and I find out that he was here, I promise you, Ozzie, I _won't_ forget."

"Rank intimidation!" Cobblepot sputtered. "You come here and make threats—"

Batman released his wrist and held up a hand. "First off," he said, "if I were going to intimidate you, it would look more like this." He snatched the cigarette holder and snapped it in two. "Second, do I really need to point out that I made you a promise just now? I mean, I even said, 'I _promise_ you, Ozzie'. Could I have been clear— _Argh_!"

Cobblepot smiled as Batman crumpled. Behind him, a henchman in a striped shirt held up an umbrella. "Worked like a charm, boss," he said, pointing the tip at the dazed vigilante. "Want me to tase him again?"

The Penguin shook his head. "No, Osprey. The gentleman came here looking for Tetch. I really think we might be able to… escort him directly, eh?" He laced his fingers together as he looked down at Batman and his smile grew wider.

* * *

Helena was having supper when Bruce got in.

"More chicken?" Selina was asking.

"Ya!"

Smiling, she added another small cube to the high chair tray. Helena started to pick it up, then pulled her hand back. "Hot!"

Selina sighed. "It's mostly cooled off," she protested. "Fine. Peas?"

"Ya!"

She spooned a few onto the tray and smiled a greeting at Bruce. "I need to talk to you," she said.

Bruce set his books down on the table. "I'm here."

"Before I tell you what I'm going to tell you, I want you to know that it's very possible that your normal paranoia is finally rubbing off on me."

Bruce tensed. "What's happened?"

"I took Helena to the supermarket with me today. Again, I'm not sure, but I think I may have been followed. I mean, it could be my imagination. I took your advice and drove into Gotham so I wouldn't run into any of your well-meaning neighbors asking if I'd just moved into the area, and where I was living, and so on. And the quickest way into the city _is_ over the Kane Memorial and onto the Aparo—"

"Selina," Bruce interrupted, "I know the fastest route into Gotham."

She closed her eyes. "Of course, you do. What I mean is, I don't honestly know if I was being followed or if the blue Chevy with license number P59 MRT—I already called it in to Oracle and she confirms it was a rental, and is now back at the agency—was just someone who happened to be headed for Gotham at the same time I was. The agency in question is in the train station, so…"

"But you're suspicious."

Selina sighed. "When I was leaving the store, I thought I heard something in the parking lot. It might have been a remote door opener, or someone playing a video game… or a camera shutter clicking. But when I looked up, I saw a blue Chevy driving off. I couldn't get the plates that time—the angle was bad and it was moving fast. But…"

"But you're concerned," Bruce nodded.

"Yes."

He let out a long breath. "I'm going downstairs to double check the security systems. I'll probably be there for a while."

"Recognize her?" Mr. Fixx asked, handing a photograph over. "One of my people has been watching the manor for the last couple of days. She appears to be living there." The two men were seated in a private booth at the back of a darkened pub, where they were nearly sure not to be disturbed.

Derek Powers studied it and a smile spread his lips. "Mr. Wayne seems to be a… very lucky man, then," he remarked. "She's a cut above many of the women he used to date in his heyday."

Fixx leaned forward. "Her name is Selina Kyle. At one time, she was believed to be Catwoman, although that story has been officially discredited."

Something in Fixx's tone made Powers look up sharply. "Officially? But you think otherwise?"

"I think," Fixx said slowly, "that Catwoman has always had a… complex… relationship with Batman. The original Batman, I mean. Now a woman, at one time believed to be her, is living with—or at least, staying over at—Wayne Manor with the original Batman. And there is a child."

"You think it's his? Or… theirs?"

Fixx hesitated. "More than six months ago, there was a news story. It didn't get much coverage here, but it was a big deal in New England for a few weeks. Apparently, Catwoman turned up there and there were a few rumors that she'd abducted a little girl of about a year old. The story petered out and the little girl was never identified. Suppose it wasn't an abduction? Suppose she was trying to go off the grid with a child who might be valuable to parties interested in settling some scores with the original Batman?"

Powers nodded slowly. "It would make sense, but right now, it's sheer speculation. I need proof."

Fixx smiled. "You'll get it."


	28. 27. High Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for help with horseback riding after-effects. Thanks to my 23-month old nephew for serving as the template for many of Helena’s antics. Love you, Isaac!  
> “No Honest Way” written by Jill Santoriello. Performed by various artists on the A Tale of Two Cities Original Broadway Concept album (Libra Verde, 2011).

_Let another law-abiding slob take the high road._  
 _There's no way you can thrive and keep honesty alive_  
 _Try to scale the moral peak and never backslide_  
 _Those with all the power in their hands_  
 _Get the law to bow to their demands_

_—Jill Santoriello, “No Honest Way”_

 

**Chapter 27—High Road**

Batman smiled as the metal cuff opened with a faint click. As usual, the goons had taken his belt and patted him down for weapons, but missed the lockpicks in the lining of his gloves.

Bruce had taught him a valuable lesson: never keep all your valuables in the same place. On business trips, Bruce carried no fewer than three wallets: one for credit cards, one for travelers’ checks, and one for cash. The first was always kept in an outer pocket, the second in an inner, and the third in some secret compartment where most pickpockets would never dream of looking. Similarly, he stored his equipment in various pockets, pouches, and hidden compartments within his suit, boots, cowl, gloves, and cape—and he’d ensured that Dick learned do the same.

So, once the taser shock had worn off, it had only taken Dick about a minute to get the cuff off. He was still stuffed in a sleeping bag, ropes encircling it and holding his arms to his sides, but the outer bag fabric was slippery and Dick found that he could wriggle about just fine inside the bag as the ropes slid around on its surface. The bag smelled musty, as though it had been lying in storage for awhile and never aired, but it wasn’t that bad. He rubbed at his wrist to restore circulation faster, and once the pins-and-needles feeling was gone, worked a batarang out of a concealed pocket and began sawing away at the fleece inner lining of the bag. Truth be told, he wasn’t anxious to escape his captors. He wanted to locate the Mad Hatter and if he stuck with these goons, it seemed like he was going to get his wish. He just needed to be certain that he ended the meeting without getting hatted in the process...

* * *

 

Oswald Cobblepot, known to some as The Penguin, allowed himself a small smile. Normally, he preferred to play his cards much closer to the chest; if his informants realized how important their intelligence was, they tended to haggle more closely. That always left him with two choices: pay the higher price and let them think that they could extort more from him on a regular basis, or make examples of them, and know that he would be blocking one of his better sources for intel.

However, he was currently in the middle of one of the best nights in recent memory. Batman had been neutralized and was on his way toward becoming one of the Mad Hatter’s new thralls. His minions had recently delivered the week’s take from his shakedown and protection rackets. And now, one of his most recently-employed informants had just handed him the kind of tip that he was lucky to procure once in two years. “A child?” he inquired, feeling only the slightest annoyance at the realization that his poker face had slipped badly. “His?”

Mr. Fixx hesitated. “Not yet verified. What _has_ been confirmed has been that Selina Kyle left Wayne Manor, ostensibly on an errand and returned there some two hours later. While we can’t ascertain how long she was at the manor prior to leaving it, I’ve been watching her apartment and she hasn’t been there in several weeks. Her mail is piling up. Her voice mail is empty, but all that proves is that she’s been checking it. We should also keep in mind that Wayne legally adopted a circus orphan and a street kid. Made them both his heirs. I’d say that under the circumstances, it may not matter whether the girl is his biological daughter, so long as he regards her as part of his family.”

Cobblepot grunted agreement. “He does have a penchant for picking up strays, doesn’t he?” He fixed sharp eyes on his companion. “Has he redrafted his will?”

“Unknown,” Fixx admitted. “Wayne’s known legal dealings have been with Rachel Green and Associates. She represented him several years ago, during the Fairchild matter. I was able to enlist one of my... contacts to check her office files after hours. She turned up a copy of an old will which divided Wayne’s estate equally between the two youths. After his younger son died, Wayne drew up a new will, naming the elder as his sole heir. To date, that is the most recent version in her files, however, we can’t discount the possibility that Wayne has filed a later will with a different firm. Or she may be working on a new will with him at this very moment. Or he’s deliberately avoiding the issue in hopes of keeping the child’s existence secret. Recall that when he drew up the earlier documents, his activities were not so well-publicized.”

“True, true,” Cobblepot said, stroking his chin. His expression grew calculating. “So, you’d like my assistance in corroborating your theory.”

Fixx shrugged. “It crossed my mind.”

“And if I don’t help you, you’ll run crying to Mannheim and Intergang.” He smiled at Fixx’s shocked face. “I investigated you carefully before allowing you into my office,” he said. “Oh, don’t worry, my good man. I have no problem with Intergang increasing their presence in Gotham... so long as they pay their cut, like all the other business organizations. Be good enough to convey that information to them when you contact them next, won’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “And let me know how they react.”

Fixx returned the smile. “Of course,” he said mildly. “And with regard to the other matter?”

A hostess entered the office, set a plate of hors d’oeuvres down on the desk, and retreated without a word. Penguin paid her no attention. He appeared to be debating something in his head. “I may have a buyer for that information. I’m sure that you’re aware of a price that’s been placed on the current Batman’s head?”

“Not interested.”

“Oh?” Penguin fussed with his monocle to try to hide his surprise. “Do tell.”

“Let’s just say, I try to fly under the radar when it comes to Bats. That’s why I’ve managed to avoid a criminal record thus far, while so many of my companions haven’t.”

“Ah.” He picked up a piece of prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe and sucked it off the toothpick. “I understand your reasoning,” he said through his mouthful, “though I do think you should reconsider. What you have is precisely the kind of intel that would prove most useful to anyone participating in that particular contest.”

“But you aren’t interested.”

Penguin spread his hands wide. “I’m interested in helping out those parties with a clear shot at winning, my good sir. As for myself, I am but a humble businessman.” He smiled. He knew full well the price that Fixx’s information could command, and the commissions that he could claim for introducing Fixx to the right people were attractive indeed. “Of course,” he added, “if you need to enlist my organization’s help in testing your theory, I’m certain that we can come to an agreement on what would constitute a reasonable fee for services rendered...”

* * *

 

Batman nearly sighed with relief when the van came to a halt. Only the fact that they’d stationed an armed guard in the back with him helped him to maintain silence. No point in making them suspicious, or letting them realize that they were actually getting him precisely where he wanted to go.

He never had liked having to sit still for any length of time. When he really was immobilized, he endured, but he’d been free of the restraints and mostly out of the bag for nearly twenty minutes and he was bored. He tried to distract himself by mentally listing off and visualizing the 12 basic strikes in escrima. He hadn’t been carrying the sticks tonight, and they surely would have been taken when he’d been captured, but somehow, he didn’t think it would be that hard to improvise something.

Finally, the double doors opened and two henchmen in blue derbies stepped inside. Without a word, they lifted the sleeping bag. Batman held the two edges of the torn fabric as close together as best he could and hoped that his cape wasn’t hanging out of the opening he’d sliced.

* * *

 

He kept forgetting how short Tetch was until the two goons holding him actually stooped so that the guy could get a good look at him. The little man smiled. “We meet again, Batman,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Hatter,” Dick snarled. The little man reeked of a particularly nauseating mix of roses and snuff tobacco. Interesting. He’d always figured Lewis Carroll to be more of an opium user, like Coleridge, but maybe snuff had been involved too.

The Mad Hatter tilted his head quizzically and slowly circled the sleeping bag, surveying his captive with a critical eye. “You used to be much more...” he frowned, “muchier. You’ve lost your muchness.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jervis,” he replied.

“Oh, no no no,” Jervis Tetch chortled. “It actually makes this so much easier. You see, your... ahem! Price tag... is the same whether you be dead or alive, so...” He nodded to the goon at Batman’s shoulders, “Off with his head!”

Batman smiled. He knew a cue when he heard one. The last strand of rope parted and he slid out of the sleeping bag, rolled, surged up and swung out at the goons with his left hand. The cuff was still on his left wrist, the right cuff dangling free as he swung out in a wide arc and caught the closest goon on the cheek.

The goon did not cry out, but he did fall back.

Batman saw an overhead pipe, leaped for it and kicked out, both feet going wide in opposite directions. One struck the first goon in the chin, bloodying it. The other caught the second goon in the solar plexus. After that, dehatting and cuffing them was easy.

He heard running feet, glanced about and realized that he and the goons were the only ones in the room. He sighed and took off in the direction of the rapidly-fading footfalls.

* * *

 

Bruce rarely discarded any of his equipment unless it was wrecked beyond repair or obsolete. Even then, he salvaged each piece for useable components, scrapping only what little was truly beyond redemption. All the same, he thought to himself as he lifted out the life-sized, plywood, two-dimensional models of some of his worst foes, he wished that he hadn’t been quite so frugal with these. Or that he'd discarded them like he'd told Barbara. He'd had no intention of ever using them again, but her previous question had reminded him that they were more intact than he liked.

He’d constructed them years ago, to test Barbara’s skills and resolve once he decided to train her in his mission. They didn’t look as much the worse for wear as he'd hoped, but he knew that they would by the time he was through with them.

Trying not to dwell on what he was planning, he hauled the figures into a vacant area of the cave and began to arrange them.

His first exercise was a warm-up, not at all dissimilar to what he’d put Barbara through all those years ago, except that this time, it wouldn’t be the “enemies” firing rubber bullets. He couldn’t ignore the batarangs, even if his proficiency with those would earn him no Academy credit. One day, this was going to be behind him and he needed to keep his skills up.

It went as he’d expected: fifteen plywood adversaries; fifteen batarangs lodged in their gun hands. With a sigh, Bruce went back to the trophy room. It was time to see if he could match that score with the Beretta. Lack of enthusiasm for the exercise was irrelevant. Still, as he loaded the rubber bullets into the gun, he found it hard to quell the rush of disgust, both for the exercise and for how much easier it was getting to handle the Beretta.

* * *

 

Batman chased after Hatter at top speed. This ended tonight, he told himself. Hatter had been out of Arkham for too long and caused too much trouble. It ended tonight. He rounded a bend and found himself in pitch darkness. The normal thing to do, he knew, was engage night-vision lenses on maximum. The thing was, that move almost always backfired. Once his eyes adjusted to near-total darkness, there was always some wise guy to hit a switch and flood the area with bright light, causing temporary—but painful—blindness. He closed his eyes and pulled up one side of his cape to further shield his face.

For several long moments, he stood straining his ears to try to determine if he was alone in the room. He scowled. The cowl was armored. It was waterproof. It had a radio antenna built into one ear and a sonic beacon built into the other. However, since the fabric also covered his own ears, some sounds were muffled. Batman sighed inwardly. This was probably one more reason that Bruce had become an expert lip-reader and insisted that Dick do the same. There was no help for it. He tugged at one edge of the cowl and carefully rolled it up to expose one ear, reflecting that Bruce would probably never have risked this. On the other hand, half of Gotham already suspected who was currently under the cowl. The police commissioner _knew_. He smiled. Risking the exposure of something that was already generally known was no risk at all.

And now, he could hear breathing, faint and fast. He dropped the cape edge, screwed his eyes shut and flung a batarang low in the direction of the breathing, as a deafening crack shattered the silence. Through his closed eyelids, he registered a bright red field, even as he instinctively clapped both hands to his ears. So, Hatter had decided to get fancy and use a flash-bang grenade instead of just flicking a light switch.

He cracked open his eyes and found himself in total darkness once more. Of course. The light from the grenade was gone now. He pulled a flashlight out of his belt and panned it about the room. A figure in a green frock coat was writhing on the ground, trying to crawl away. Batman sprang forward. “Hello, Tetch,” he snarled. At least, he thought he was snarling. He couldn’t yet hear his own voice, thanks to that sound explosion.

Hatter put up a token resistance as Batman yanked his arms behind his back, but they both knew that the little man wasn’t going anywhere. The batarang had sunk deep into the back of his leg. Batman suspected that it had struck tendon. He couldn’t tell if Hatter was moaning or playing stoic, but it was obvious that the guy was in pain. Batman couldn’t feel too sorry for him.

He hoisted Tetch over one shoulder and carried him back to his flunkies. Then he texted Oracle to alert GCPD for a pickup.

* * *

 

Bruce pretended not to notice the furtive looks and conversations that rapidly trailed off at his approach. He wasn’t at the academy to be liked. He was here to regain the cowl. Nothing more, nothing less. However, news traveled fast, and his absence from his first two morning classes did not go unnoticed. Chiarello and O’Flaherty had come up with additional questions. They’d been joined by Fochs, and another officer who had been introduced as Sgt. Joyner.

Bruce had rarely been as grateful for his photographic memory. He was sure that he’d practically recited his report word-for-word several times over the course of two hours.

When the interrogation was over and Chiarello dismissed him, he rejoined his fellow cadets midway through Emergency Response Driving. Sgt. Uminga was going over the theoretical part of the course today, though they were slated to begin working with the driving simulator on Friday. She accepted his written authorization and waved him to his seat wordlessly.

Bruce didn’t yet know this sergeant well enough to be sure whether this was typical behavior on her part, or whether she shared the seeming resentment that he’d noted on the part of several of his instructors since he’d filed that report.

“There will be a written test on this material tomorrow,” Uminga’s voice interrupted his musings. “If you missed part of the lesson, I remind you that it is your responsibility to learn the material. Dismissed.”

Bruce trotted back to his locker to get the texts for the next class. He pretended not to see Kotsopoulos start to talk to him. He didn’t feel like answering any more questions at the moment, nor having to reiterate once more that he couldn’t discuss the subject. A voice at the back of his mind pointed out that Kotsopoulos might have wanted to talk about something else, but he ignored it. Right at this moment, he wasn’t much in the mood for conversation, period.

* * *

 

Oracle’s systems were programmed to alert their owner whenever certain keywords were typed into a search engine. Most never reached her. The programs registered the keywords but didn’t send out an alert unless three or more were used in combination by the same IP address within a short time span.

When the system sprang to life the next morning and the alarm sounded softly, it took a moment for Oracle to remember what it was there for. When she did, she rolled her eyes as she wheeled over to the monitor. “Probably someone searching to see if Batman and Superman are secretly the same person again,” she muttered. “Or checking out some story in the tabloid press about...” her voice trailed off. Behind her full-frame glasses, green eyes widened. Without looking at the keyboard, she began typing in commands that would send the searcher on a wild goose chase to useless sites and dead links. She debated hacking into the Wiscasset police database. The information—if Dinah and Selina had missed any of it when they’d purged the files months ago—probably wouldn’t be missed if she deleted it now. On the other hand, its disappearance could still arouse suspicion, even at this late date. Frowning, she pulled up the data on their information security systems. Her lips twitched. Their safeguards were strong, but she could make them stronger yet. It wouldn’t take more than an hour or so of programming to rig a few booby traps in their network so that most hackers attempting to gain access would do nothing more than expose themselves.

She felt herself relax as she settled on her course of action. This was close. Too close for comfort by far, and she needed to do some more digging to determine the identity of the person looking for this information. For now, though, she was pretty sure that she could deflect their search.

Oracle sighed. She hated to give Bruce something else to stress about. On the other hand, if this unknown party was better than she thought—if he or she somehow found out about Helena despite her precautions and anything happened, even if Bruce somehow forgave her for keeping him out of the loop—she’d never forgive herself.

She sent a text to his cell phone asking him to call her when he had a moment. Then she set to work on her program.

* * *

 

“I think my muscle cramps have muscle cramps,” Brenner groaned as he slid out of his saddle and staggered on the ground. “I don’t even want to think what I’d feel like without that ointment you recommended.”

“It will pass,” Bruce remarked, trying to sound sympathetic. The truth was, he was feeling a bit of soreness in his own muscles, despite being in far better shape. He rested a hand on Shilling. “Let’s get these boys cleaned and fed,” he continued.

Brenner nodded, but remained standing, even as Bruce took a couple of steps forward.

When Bruce noted that his fellow cadet wasn’t following, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Is something the matter?”

Brenner hesitated. “Yeah,” he said finally, “but I don’t know why. At least, I don’t see how it could have gone differently.”

Bruce frowned. “Clarify?”

“Sir... Squad Leader... the flack you’re getting over Jandt. We’re _supposed_ to report that kind of thing if we witness it. If they find out we didn’t, it’s an expulsion offense. But...”

Bruce shook his head. “That’s my concern, Brenner, not yours.”

“What did they expect you to do? Sir?” Brenner finished, belatedly.

Bruce sighed. “The right thing. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t consequences. In any event, it’s not your headache.”

The cadet frowned. “Except that if I see something similar down the road, I’m not sure how anxious I’ll be to report it if this is the way things are going to go down.”

Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. Then he opened his eyes and sighed again. “That will be your decision. Whichever one you make. If it helps,” he added, “I didn’t submit my report before examining all of the ramifications.”

“You knew this would happen,” Brenner stated disbelievingly.

“I knew it could. Whistleblowers are rarely looked upon kindly.”

“And you still...”

Bruce was getting tired of the conversation. “As I said, it was the right thing to do. It didn’t suddenly become a mistake just because some people disagreed.”

When Brenner didn’t respond, Bruce gave Shilling’s reins a slight tug and took another step forward. “You remember how to clean your tack?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.” Brenner fell into step behind him. “It’s still not fair,” he said in an undertone.

“Life rarely is.” As they reached the stables, Bruce glanced back over his shoulder at Brenner. “Thanks.”

Brenner shrugged. “Just saying what a few of us are thinking is all.” Then he turned and stroked his horse’s neck. “Easy, Taupe. Easy...”

Bruce allowed himself a faint smile as he led Shilling to his stall.

* * *

 

She had just wheeled Mrs. O’Hare to her physiotherapy session and was headed back to the front desk when she heard a voice calling, “Cass? Wait up!”

Cassandra Cain turned swiftly, falling immediately into a combat stance. When she recognized her friend from the Volunteer Office, she relaxed. “Doug,” she said with a guarded smile.

Doug Sherman grinned back. “I haven’t seen you around much lately,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

Cass nodded. “Been here,” she said. “As scheduled.” She was no good at small talk, she thought with some irritation. It was one more gift she envied Dick. She knew that this was one more reason that she didn’t have many friends. On the other hand, now that she was intent on keeping her Batgirl identity secret, perhaps not having many friends wasn’t a bad thing. If fewer people knew her, then that meant that fewer people would be asking her questions that she couldn’t answer without lying or wondering where she disappeared to whenever Batgirl had to spring into action. She hated lying. Besides, it was hard enough to summon the right words to give a truthful answer without having to make up some story that would still be believable.

If Doug was put off by her short response, it didn’t show. “I was just wondering if you had a chance to finish that manga I loaned you a few months ago,” he said.

Cass felt her heart plummet. “Oh. I...” she looked down at her shoes. “Doug, I’ve been... studying. For GED. No time for...manga. I... I can bring back tomorrow. Okay?”

“No,” Doug was still smiling, “there’s no rush. I was wondering... do you like classical music?”

She had no idea. “Um... maybe?”

“The GSU orchestra is giving a concert on Thursday night at seven. Would you like to go?”

Cass blinked. Was he asking her out? “A... date?” she ventured, trying to make sure she was understanding properly.

“Well, I hope so.” Doug seemed suddenly unsure. “I mean... if you don’t want to, that’s okay, too. I just thought...”

Cass smiled. “No. I do want to,” she said.

“Are you sure? For a minute there, it looked like you were going to say no. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

Cass shook her head still smiling. “I... don’t.” She didn’t know him well, but suddenly, she thought she wanted to fix that.

* * *

 

The phone rang nearly as soon as Bruce entered the manor from the garage. He debated letting it go through to voice mail. On the third ring, he picked up, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.

“Is this Bruce Wayne?” The voice on the other end was deep and sonorous, but there was a quality to it that seemed somewhat ‘off’. The speech was a bit too slow, a bit too careful, as though the speaker was trying to hide something.

“It is,” Bruce confirmed.

“I... wash calling... to talk to you... about my brozz-zzer. Alvin.”

Bruce’s heart sank. “I’m not at liberty to discuss any details, Councilor Jandt,” he replied, reminding himself firmly that slurred speech alone was not necessarily indicative of drunkenness. Just off the top of his head, exhaustion could cause it too, as could certain medications.

“No,” Neal Jandt continued. “You don’t unner-unnershtand. If Alvin wash-es... out of the ’cademy, it’ll kill him. It’ll kill my career. The dishgrashe will—”

“I’m afraid the matter has been taken out of my hands, Councilor,” Bruce said firmly, cutting Jandt off in mid-sentence. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, tell them you were wrong!” Jandt snapped. “You made a mishtake. Everone makes mishtakes!” he wheedled. “Even the wise an’ mighty Batman!”

Bruce sighed. “Councilor. I’m terminating this conversation now. I would suggest that you get some sleep. Good night.”

“DON’T you dare hang up on me, Wayne! I can make things go very well or very badly at that hearing you have next summer! You have to help me!”

“Councilor Jandt,” Bruce rubbed his forehead wearily, “while this conversation does appear to bear out your assertion that you need help, I think you ought to consider approaching a different sort of professional,” he said flatly. “Good night.”

He hung up the phone as Jandt began to bluster again. Then he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He did not want to deal with this tonight.

* * *

 

Bruce poked his head into the nursery. Helena looked up from her blocks. “Daddy!”

From her place on the sofa, Selina smiled. “Hi, handsome. How’d it go?”

Bruce shook his head. “Don’t ask. Please.” Then he smiled and dropped to one knee, holding his arms wide. “Helena!”

Helena charged toward him. Then, with a giggle, she ducked under his arm and bolted past. Too late, Bruce made an awkward grab for her, but he was badly positioned and would have fallen, were it not for the door frame. Selina burst out laughing. “You really are slipping, you know!” she gasped.

“Literally and figuratively,” Bruce groaned. Brenner wasn’t the only one who needed the topical heat rub. He wasn’t used to riding anymore and his backside was already reminding him of that salient point. That Brenner undoubtedly had it worse was cold comfort at the moment. He struggled painfully to his feet, just as Helena re-entered, clutching a wooden train engine in both chubby hands.

“Choo choo, Daddy!” she beamed, careening into his shin.

Bruce smiled. “So, it is.” He stood aside to let her back into the nursery. She ran into the middle of the room, flopped down on the carpet, and patted the space next to her imperiously. “Daddy. Sit.”

“Um...” He winced. Sitting on the floor was _not_ a wise move in his current condition. “How about I take the sofa?”

Helena shook her head. “No, Daddy. Here.” She patted the floor again. “Here!”

Bruce sighed. Why was it so hard to tell her ‘no’? He’d never had this problem with the others. He knelt gingerly on the carpet. Helena smiled and pushed the train back and forth on the carpet. A moment later, she was shoving a book into his hand. “Read.”

His foot was falling asleep. He looked over his shoulder. “I’ve been riding a horse for the last hour,” he told Selina. “I really can’t sit down here much longer.”

Selina sighed. “All your training to withstand torture... gone in the face of an hour with Toronado.”

"Shilling," Bruce corrected.

"I like 'Toronado' better," she chuckled. “Okay, get up. Helena, it’s almost bedtime. If you want Daddy to read you a story, it’s going to be on the sofa.”

“No.”

“Fine. No story. Bed.”

“NO! Story.”

Selina bent down to her daughter’s eye level. “Story on the sofa?”

For a moment, Helena looked as though she was going to protest again. Instead, she nodded slowly. Selina turned to Bruce with a satisfied smile. “Anything else I can do before I stick supper in the microwave?”

Bruce shook his head in bemusement as he struggled to his feet. “No... I think I’m all right.”

“You’re sure. Because, if you need rescuing again, I could...”

Bruce closed his eyes. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

She giggled and wrapped her arms around him quickly. “I don’t think that’s actually possible,” she replied, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Come downstairs when you’re done.”

Bruce frowned after her. Then he felt Helena’s hand slip into his and he smiled down at his daughter and led her to the sofa.

* * *

 

“Naturally,” Cobblepot said with an expansive wave of his arms, “I thought that, in the face of such excellent detective work, it behooved me to introduce Messrs. Fixx and Powers to you.”

Hush smiled and extended his right hand to the newcomer. He winced and let out a low hiss of pain when Fixx squeezed it in a firm grip.

“Oh,” Fixx exclaimed, “I _am_ sorry!” The contrite look on his face didn’t quite erase the speculative gleam in his eyes, as he filed the information away. “I don’t always know my own strength.”

Behind his mask of bandages, Hush’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom,” he said testily. “I would apply that if I were you. What do you have?”

For answer, Powers slid his smart phone across the table to Hush. “My colleague snapped this the other day. The woman is currently residing at Wayne Manor. The child appears to be hers, and may or may not be his. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to confirm it, as yet.”

“The thing is,” Fixx interjected, “when we were trying to ascertain whether there was a connection between the child and Wayne, we also attempted to pull data on Wayne himself. Initially, Giggle turned up several thousand hits. However, after we clicked the first two links, the browser crashed. We were working on separate computers and both encountered the problem at the same time. When we rebooted, not only were there fewer hits, but they appeared to be far less relevant.”

“In other words,” Powers stated, “there is reason to believe that Wayne, or someone in his camp, is trying to prevent us from connecting certain dots... which would almost have to imply that we’re on to something.”

Hush’s lips parted slightly and he let out a harsh breath. Then a smile spread slowly across his face. “You don’t say,” he answered in a low whisper. “You don’t say...”


	29. 28. Cut Off, Flipped Off, Ticked Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for equestrian expertise. Thanks to Will44 for legal assistance.
> 
> A/N: “The Barber of Ripon and the Ghostly Basin” was written by W. Harrison Ainsworth and first appeared in Ballads: Romantic, Fantastical, and Humorous (London, 1855). “Things that Matter” written by Gary LeVox, Neil Thrasher, and Michael Dulaney. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their Unstoppable album (Lyric Street, 2009).

_Five o'clock, he's the last one_  
Out of the gate  
And he gets cut off, flipped off, ticked off  
Out on the interstate  
And he wonders why this world won't  
Leave him alone  
Til he hears that little voice holler  
Daddy's home

_—Gary LeVox, Neil Thrasher, Michael Dulaney, “Things that Matter”_

**Chapter 28—Cut Off, Flipped Off, Ticked Off**

Bruno Mannheim had many irons in the fire. As the leader of Intergang, he oversaw activity in Metropolis, New York City, much of New Jersey, and Illinois. Until its destruction in a Chemo attack, he had also maintained a small but active cabal in Bludhaven. Gotham was on his radar, although the local vigilantes had been putting obstacles in his way for the better part of the decade he’d had his sights set on the city. He was just happy that in Metropolis, Superman tended to deal more with meta-powered threats. Sure, they’d crossed paths with the Blue Boy Scout—Darkseid had bankrolled them for a while and Motherbox technology had garnered the Man of Steel’s attention on more than one occasion. However, since they’d begun sticking to street level tactics and more conventional weaponry, Superman tended to take a step back and let the police handle things. That suited Mannheim fine. He owned several officers in key positions and knew that he could easily acquire several others for the right price.

When it came to Gotham, though, the active vigilantes considered organizations such as Intergang and the 100 to be primary targets. As such, his inroads in that territory had been negligible. That was the only reason that he bothered responding to the message he received from the kid his brother had suggested he send out on reconnaissance and hadn’t heard from in over three months. The silence hadn’t been surprising. He’d specifically told the kid not to bother checking in unless he had something worth reporting. He’d thought it would get the guy out of his hair; he distrusted overeager, overambitious tyros. He distrusted seasoned lieutenants too, but at least he knew them well enough to predict their tactics.

Queen Elizabeth I had dealt with troublesome courtiers by sending them to Ireland. Mannheim had been thinking somewhat along those lines when he’d ordered Mr. Fixx to Gotham. Hearing from the young man now was unexpected. He debated letting him stew for a time, but he’d been looking for a way into Gotham’s markets for too long to risk letting an opportunity slip by. He called the man who’d relayed Fixx’s message. “I trust you had a good reason for disturbing me with this.”

On the other end of the line, O’Malley swallowed hard. “Fixx believes he has a way to neutralize any...” he paused meaningfully, “...Bat-interference in our Gotham activities.”

Mannheim frowned and settled his bulk more comfortably in his padded office chair. “I’m listening.”

“He’s requesting Intergang’s help to corroborate his findings—”

Mannheim fought down his annoyance. “That isn’t the agreement, and you and Fixx both know it. He said that he could hand us Gotham without requiring any outlay from us whatsoever. He’s delivered nothing, as yet, and I don’t see an incentive to advance him any assistance with no proven results.” His voice grew colder. “I suppose this sort of inattention to detail is to be expected in a neophyte, but I’m surprised to hear it from you.”

O’Malley paused on the other end. “Are you familiar with the name Elliot?”

“Doctor Thomas Elliot?” Mannheim’s ears pricked up but he kept his voice neutral. “I know of him.” He’d considered recruiting him, in fact, but he was waiting to see whether the doctor was back in the game after over two years in Arkham. There was no point in making overtures to a washed-up has-been until he demonstrated that he was as capable as ever.

“It was on Elliot’s suggestion that Fixx approached me. I heard him out and I think you should, too. If his theory bears out, I think we can all but guarantee an open playing field in Gotham going forward.”

Mannheim glowered at the telephone. “As you said before. All right. I’m still listening.”

“There’s reason to believe that Wayne has a young daughter.”

The Intergang leader’s eyes widened involuntarily and a smile creased his face. “Go on.”

“Any attempt to corroborate the theory appears to have been intercepted and rerouted, which makes Fixx think...”

“...that the Bats are monitoring searches of this nature and diverting them,” Mannheim nodded. He’d learned something of manipulating the flow of information when Darkseid had been providing their technology. He hadn’t been savvy enough at the time to understand how to use that technology, but he’d been able to appreciate the potential, even as he’d opted for a more brutal approach. “You’ll probably have better results if you search for a paper trail instead of an electronic one.” He considered. “All right. We have a man in Gotham whom you should contact. I’ll see that he’ll be expecting your call. His fee is on your dime. Intergang will reimburse you _if_ your theory bears out. And O’Malley, the next time you contact me, ensure that it is with something solid and verifiable. I’m not making a habit of funding hunches, no matter how reasonable they may appear on the face of it. Test me at your peril.”

* * *

 

The Class D uniform had a utility belt. It was nowhere near as well-equipped as the model that Bruce was used to, but the idea was certainly familiar. Instead of a batarang pouch, the Class D belt sported a magazine pouch. It bothered Bruce that he no longer flinched when he thought about that. Where he would have carried his grappling line, there was a baton ring. Next came the chemical agents: mace and pepper spray. He rarely carried those, but his knockout sprays were usually on the other side of the belt. He considered that when he returned to the cowl, he might find it easier to change that. The next item was the one he really hated: the holster. The handcuff key and cuffs completed the array. He’d made the switch to zip-ties a few years ago, but when he’d carried cuffs, they’d hung on his old belt in a position rather close to where they hung now. So much was similar, he mused, but too much was different.

A whistle blast from Farnham broke into his reverie. Together with the rest of his class, he broke into a run across the field to the firing range, found an empty target, and discharged his pistol. Around him, most of his classmates followed suit. Unfortunately, Laramie’s boot came down on a patch of slick mud and he slipped, landing on his elbows and shins. There was some muffled laughter.

“Get up and find your target, Cadet! We don’t have all day,” Farnham bellowed.

Red-faced, Laramie complied.

When all guns had been discharged, Farnham collected the paper targets and handed them back to the cadets, one by one.

“Not bad, Cadet,” Farnham rumbled as he handed Bruce’s back.

Bruce clenched his teeth. Twelve shots had found their mark. Three were close.

“Thank you, Sir,” he managed hollowly, feeling for a moment as though he would vomit.

The moment passed. The sick feeling in his stomach persisted.

* * *

 

It didn’t get better when they returned to the locker room to change for parade drills. Most of the others avoided him pointedly, gathering in small knots in different corners of the room. Again, they murmured about Jandt and the inquiry.

“You know,” Laramie drawled, his voice carrying over the murmurs, “I was just thinking back to this poem I studied in high school called ‘The Barber of Ripon and the Ghostly Basin’. It’s been on my mind for the last week or so for some reason I just can’t put my finger on... Anyone know the one I’m talking about?”

Blank looks and denials greeted the question.

Laramie grinned. “I just can’t seem to get the opening lines out of my head,” he continued in an all-too-innocent voice. “It goes like this.”

He took a step back from the group, placed his hands behind his back, thrust his chest out and recited:

 _“_ _Since ghost stories you want, there is one I can tell_

_Of a wonderful thing that **Bat Pigeon** befell!”_

Bruce fought not to react as a wave of laughter crashed over the locker room. He was glad that he had his back to them, even as his hands involuntarily curled into fists.

“Knock it off,” Brenner said in a low tone.

“Excuse me?” Laramie swung over in the other cadet’s direction.

Brenner swallowed hard. “I said, knock it off,” he replied. “Wayne just did what we all should have done if we’d been there.”

“Yeah?” Laramie demanded. “You’d actually snitch on a fellow officer, knowing he’d get kicked out for something that happened on his own time? The way I heard it, the guy wasn’t even in control when he got behind the wheel. Hatter had him. You think it’s fair Jandt’s facing expulsion for that?”

“Whether Jandt gets expelled isn’t Wayne’s call,” Kotsopoulos spoke up.

“It wouldn’t be anyone’s call if Wayne hadn’t filed a report,” Laramie snapped. “Of course, just this once, Wayne decided he was just going to follow orders, am I right?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to do,” Kotsopoulos answered, sounding a bit unsure. “Isn’t it?”

Laramie spun furiously to face him. “Really, Steve-O? You think it’s fine to blow the whistle on a fellow cadet? Or a fellow officer? Man, your sergeant is going to be rushing to hold a ticker tape parade for you, if you try that.”

“That’s not fair!” Norton broke in.

“It’s not fair,” Laramie retorted, “that we all get slapped with push-ups and ab crunches because some people show up to class a couple of minutes late, but we do it because we’re a team. We’re supposed to watch out for each other, not report things that could get a fellow team member kicked out.”

There were murmurs of agreement and a few muffled “Yeah”s.

“I mean,” Mazzucchelli broke in, “it would be one thing with someone who goes by the book on everything. But when a guy with a rep for making his own rules suddenly toes the line...”

“Like we’re all supposed to,” Norton interrupted.

“Kid,” Laramie snapped, “if you’re going to act like that in the field, I pity whichever officer gets saddled with you as a partner. It’s a whole different ballgame in real life.”

Bruce checked the clock. They had less than five minutes before the next class started. More than anything, he wanted to make one of his patented disappearances while the others were distracted. Still, something made him say, “Four minutes,” without turning around.

“Hear that, guys?” Burns asked. “Bat Pigeon is reminding us that we’ve got to fly.”

Bruce ignored the jab and headed for the exit. Norton fell into step behind him. “Jerks,” he muttered.

Bruce sighed. “You’re not doing yourself any favors interfering,” he pointed out.

“Ehhh...” Norton shrugged. “They’ve been ribbing me since day one when I messed up in front of Calhoun. If I’m damned whatever I do, I might as well do what’s right. I mean...” His face reddened and he broke into a quick trot, pulling a few paces ahead of Bruce.

Bruce let him, even as a smile ghosted across his face.

* * *

 

“Keep the line, Cadets!” Captain Alanguilan ordered. “Parsons, you’re out of step. Rein in!”

Red-faced, Parsons acknowledged the command and did her best to pull her mare back in line with the other mounts. Once they had completed a full circuit of the dressage ring in perfect synchronization, the captain blew his whistle.

“Take ’em around at a canter this time,” he called. “And keep the line.” A moment later, his voice rang out again. “Cadet Brenner! I said a canter, not a trot! Get with the program... Are you _galloping,_ Brenner?”

“I... I don’t know, Sir!” yelped the wide-eyed cadet as he raced past. “Just make her stop!”

“She’s your mount, Cadet!” Alanguilan yelled. “Steady those hands and sit up!”

“T-trying, Sir!”

“Lower those hands, Cadet!”

“Trying, Sir!”

“Brenner!” Parsons called, “She’s got to know who’s boss!”

“She knows!” Brenner yelled back. “Trust me!”

Bruce nudged Shilling into a trot, cutting across the ring to head off Brenner and Taupe. Moving closer to intercept, he relied on the press of his calf and the shifting of his body weight to urge Shilling forward. With little maneuvering room, Taupe slowed to a trot, leaving Brenner bouncing painfully on her back. Bruce drew up alongside and caught hold of Taupe’s bridle. “Whoa,” he ordered, bringing both horses to a halt.

“Cadet Brenner,” Alanguilan called, “are you fit to continue?”

Brenner gulped in a fresh breath. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

“Commence cantering when the others reach you,” he gestured to where Parsons and Norton were completing the lap. “Nicely done, Cadet Wayne.”

Bruce released Taupe’s bridle. “We’ll work on this later,” he said.

Brenner nodded miserably.

* * *

 

When Bruce didn’t respond to her text message after twenty-four hours, Barbara called the manor directly. She knew that Bruce was still at the academy, but Selina needed to know the situation as well.

When the call went through to voice mail after four rings, she bit back a growl of frustration. “Selina? Or Bruce. Please call me back. This is important.”

She hung up and dialed her father’s number. His voice mail message came on after the second ring. “Hi, Daddy. I think there could be a situation developing and I can’t reach Bruce or Selina. Can you call me when you get this? Thanks. Love you.”

She hung up with a sigh. She knew that her father wasn’t tied to the manor grounds. In fact, now that she remembered, today was one of his swimming days at the Y. Everything was probably fine. At least, for now.

She hoped.

* * *

 

Bruce twisted the top off a bottle of water and took a long swig. He recapped it, tucked it under his arm, and gave Shilling’s neck a gentle scratch. The horse whickered in pleasure. “I know you’d rather have a full brushing and a meal,” he said in a low tone, “but I’m afraid you and I have a bit more work to do first. You’ll need to help Taupe show Brenner how it’s done.”

Shilling snorted and tossed his head. Bruce allowed himself a smile as he took the reins up once more and walked the horse slowly around the dressage ring. “Just keep moving, boy,” he added, noting with satisfaction that Brenner was doing the same, several yards ahead.

“Is this where you’re hanging out, these days, Wayne?” a familiar voice asked.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder to find Luisa Ortega leaning against the fence. She was wrinkling her nose a bit and Bruce realized that the wind was blowing over her from the direction of the stables.

“Hello, Ortega,” Bruce maintained his smile. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop.”

Luisa nodded. “That’s okay,” she said, keeping pace with them from her side of the fence. “This won’t take long. I was just wondering about the defensive driving module.”

Bruce waited for her to continue.

“I was wondering,” she said again, “well, I need practice. And I was wondering...”

Bruce raised an eyebrow and asked himself how many more times Ortega was planning to wonder before she got to the point.

Ortega looked down. One boot scuffed the muddy ground, while her left hand toyed with the Squad Leader band on her right arm. “I was wondering if you had a place where I could practice without worrying about someone seeing me drive like a maniac in an empty parking lot and probably crash into a pedestrian island. I was,” she made eye contact briefly before looking back down at the ground, “wondering whether you had a practice area for that. Plus, my regular sitter’s busy this weekend and I was wondering if maybe Samantha could play with Helena again. I mean, if she’s going to be with you this weekend?”

“I believe she is,” Bruce nodded, “although I’ll need to verify.” He’d intentionally been vague as to whether Selina was in permanent residence at the manor and he was gratified that Ortega wasn’t assuming anything. The fewer people who knew the truth, the better. And he _did_ have an outdoor training course for the Batmobiles, well-secluded from the neighbors’ prying eyes. He was fairly certain that was what Ortega had been hinting at. “Shall we say, Saturday at one?”

It was nearly time to start the additional drills. He called a warning to Brenner, who waved acknowledgment.

“That would be great,” Ortega smiled. “And I was—”

Bruce held up a hand. “You can stop wondering,” he said flatly.

“Right,” Ortega said with a nervous laugh. “Saturday at one.”

* * *

 

Bruce was glad that it was only a short drive from the academy to the manor. Although the road was generally smooth, with the winter snows melting and the natural erosion, early spring frequently brought with it a new crop of potholes.

After having spent nearly two hours on horseback, Bruce could feel every one of them. It didn’t matter that he was in better physical shape now than he’d been in years. The muscles he needed for riding weren’t the same that he needed for combat. He was beginning to wish for a car without a driver’s seat. The drive home wouldn’t be nearly as painful if he could stand up.

He cracked open the window to allow a bit of the night air inside. Soon, he told himself, he’d be out there again, making a difference. And he wouldn’t need to be stuck in a car either, particularly not in the city.

It had been too long since his last leap from the top of the One Gotham Center. At 110 stories and standing 1,368 feet high, it was the tallest building in the city, overshadowing Wayne Tower by more than 300 feet. The cornices jutted out gracefully over the street below. If he wasn’t on a case and the signal wasn’t up, Bruce usually preferred to start his patrol standing on the northern wall of the building, between the two central gargoyles. With no pressing business at hand, he had the luxury of closing his eyes and letting himself feel at one with his city. Its pulse became his pulse; its heartbeat, his. He’d stand like a high diver, the toes of his boots hanging just over the edge, as he waited for the moment when all felt right. Then he’d ready his grapnel and leap.

The exhilaration of those first seconds of freefall never got old. If it did, perhaps it would be time to think about retirement, but it never did. At the right moment, he’d release the grapnel, letting it loop around a vertical flagpole and then he’d swing out, to land on a rooftop several yards away. The city was a jungle, but at night, he was a lion. And he would protect his territory with his life.

Despite his aching muscles, Bruce smiled. It wouldn’t be much longer.

He was just putting his car in the garage when his cell phone rang. Remembering that around this time yesterday, it had been Neal Jandt on the other end, he checked his Caller ID first. One eyebrow shot up when he recognized the name. “Rachel!” he said warmly. “This is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As he listened to her reply, a genuine smile creased his face. His hearing date was set for the first week of July, less than four months from now. Suddenly the night when he’d be able to take his next leap from the roof of One Gotham Center looked a lot closer...

* * *

 

Barbara tried not to gush, but she was fighting a losing battle. She’d never thought that Cass wanted a social life outside of the family, but she should have. It was just that Cass was usually as driven as Bruce and between patrol and study, Barbara hadn’t thought that she even noticed anything that wasn’t part of either mission.

“A date?” she grinned. “You’re going out with someone?”

Cass scuffed her shoe along the floor. “Just concert,” she said. “Music. Won’t have to talk. Much.”

Barbara nodded. “This is true. So tell me about this Doug person. What’s he like?”

“Um...” Cass kept her eyes on the floor too. “Nice. Likes manga. Likes music. Nice.” She frowned. “For concert... for date... is this,” she patted her sweatshirt and jeans self-consciously, “okay?”

Barbara hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit casual,” she pointed out.

“Casual... bad?”

“Not necessarily,” Barbara said. “But it might be an idea to wear something a little dressier.”

Cass frowned. “Dressier... how?”

Barbara smiled. “I’m bringing up Killinger’s online catalog,” she said, typing a line of text into a search box. “Let’s check out their women’s fashions. Did you have any kind of look in mind?”

Cass’s frown deepened. “No...”

“Well, let’s see if anything grabs you. Pull up a chair.”

* * *

 

Lester Paxton left his lawyer’s office in a worse mood than he’d entered it. Cliff Maxwell had not been encouraging.

“Les, you hired a known criminal to try to frame one of the most powerful men in the state for a TRO violation!” Cliff liked to talk with his hands and they had been flapping so wildly that Paxton had half-expected him to fly around the office. “The guy had your phone number on him, he identified you positively, and Ronald Chester is testifying for the prosecution.”

Paxton glowered. He hadn’t spoken to Chester since the night that everything had started to go sour.

“False Face might be taking the stand as well,” Maxwell continued. “His lawyer is trying to negotiate a plea bargain, contingent on his testifying against you.”

“That lowlife?” snarled Paxton. “Who’s going to believe his word over mine?”

“Let’s hope the jury doesn’t,” Maxwell retorted. “But it doesn’t look good for you. The police subpoenaed your cell phone records. False Face called you less than a half hour before he was arrested. You spoke for about three minutes. He also called you from holding.”

“He had a wrong number,” Paxton snapped back. “Honestly, Cliff, you can think of these things, too.”

“I did,” Maxwell said. “And maybe that would work. _If_ there hadn’t been a series of phone calls between the two of you in the week before the arrest. Three calls from your phone to his. Two from his to yours. Each one lasting between two and ten minutes. That’s a _lot_ of time to be on with a wrong number.”

Paxton’s glower deepened. “Very well. So, in a worst case scenario, what am I looking at? Community service? A fine?”

“Five years in prison.”

His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon, Clifford?”

“Five years,” Maxwell repeated. “Since it’s a first offense, you might be out in half that time, but framing someone for a crime draws a five year penalty.”

“That’s preposterous!” Paxton bellowed. “That’s worse than Wayne would have gotten if he’d violated the damned TRO!”

“That’s the law,” Maxwell said. “I’m sorry, Les. I get that you’re upset...”

“Upset?” Paxton snapped. “UPSET? I’m appalled! I don’t deserve to be treated like some criminal on the stand and I am NOT going to jail. You are NOT going to allow that to happen, Clifford.”

Maxwell ignored the outburst. “I get that you’re upset,” he repeated levelly, “but yelling at me isn’t the way to go. I am going to prepare the best defense I possibly can for you, Lester. I can attack witness credibility. I can certainly point out reasonable doubt. However, you have to recognize that this is not going to automatically go in your favor. Prison time is a real possibility, and as much as I’m going to try to keep that from happening, you need to be prepared for the eventuality.”

* * *

 

It was nearly two o’clock before Selina picked up Barbara’s messages. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I usually do check voice mail, but I got in from patrol late the other night and then Helena got me up early and Bruce is dealing with...” She shook her head. “Enough with the excuses,” she interrupted herself wearily. “What’s going on?”

As Barbara explained, Selina began to swear. “What are my options?” she demanded when she’d finished.

Barbara sighed. “Be careful. I wish I had something else I could tell you. I mean, if you want a bodyguard, I can contact a JLA reservist or two. There are a couple of people based in Gotham who would probably be willing. Onyx, for one.”

Selina was already shaking her head, even though she knew it was pointless when Barbara couldn’t see it. “I can’t live like that,” she said.

“You know, they can be discreet. It’s not like anyone has to be right on top of you. They can shadow from a distance.”

“I’ll know they’re there,” Selina sighed. “Look, as soon as you find out anything, even if you aren’t sure, tell me. I’m not as paranoid as Bruce, but I’d rather you didn’t wait until you were a hundred percent certain of your facts before filling me in.”

“I understand,” Barbara’s voice was reassuring. “And they won’t find anything in Maine. We got rid of 99 per cent of it last summer and I took care of the last one per cent yesterday. It’s still there,” she added. “I was worried that a remote hack to delete a file might be detected, but renaming and misfiling the data wasn’t as risky.”

“That’s something.”

There was a pause. “Selina?” Barbara ventured, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you might want to stay close to the manor for the next little while. Just until this all blows over.”

Selina sighed. “I know. You’re right. Starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

Selina took a deep breath. “Remember that smallpox scare when I took Helena to the Solomons?”

“I do,” Barbara replied heavily.

“Well, Helena missed her last DPT immunization. She should have had it by twenty months, but I had to cancel and reschedule. With everything else that’s been happening since we got back, that wasn’t the last time. We’ve got an appointment at 4:15 today, and the doc’s office said that if I miss this one, they’re firing us as patients. I’m just going to get Helena up from her nap in about ten minutes and we’re heading off.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll be careful.”

There was a sad smile in Barbara’s voice as she responded. “I know.”

* * *

 

There was a note from Vivi on the mantelpiece in the study when Paxton got home. There was an emergency meeting of the ladies’ auxiliary at church and she didn’t know when she’d be back. Paxton frowned, wondering kind of emergency there could possibly be.

He tried to remember the last time they’d sat down and really talked about what was going on. They used to talk once, he recalled. But since his arrest, Vivi seemed to be spending more and more time out of the house.

It was Thackeray’s day off, not that he would have confided his concerns to the butler. Not that the butler would have cared.

He opened his desk drawer and took out the tobacco tin. He removed the lid and set the tin on his desk, allowing the aroma to permeate.

The phone rang and he picked it up hurriedly. “Lester Paxton.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then came a dry chuckle and a smug voice greeted him. “Lester! Is life treating you as well as you’re going to be treating me?”

“What do you want?” Paxton demanded.

“Information, Lester,” False Face replied. “I’d like you to tell me a bit more about Bruce Wayne. In fact, I’d like you to tell me everything. The more you come up with, the less I’m likely to recall when they get me up on that witness stand at your trial...”

* * *

 

At 5:00 that afternoon, Barbara was following up on a data search for the JSA. The radio was on the local pop-rock station, providing some background music. A chime announced the hour.

“You’re listening to WBAH-FM, 98.7 on your dial. I’m Mona Maleev. It was five o’clock at the tone and here’s what’s making news. A car has exploded in the parking lot of an East End medical office. Police and emergency crews are on the scene. We’ll keep you informed as the story develops. On the GSU campus, a practical joke went sour when...”

Barbara turned off the radio abruptly. There had to be dozens of medical offices in the East End. There had to be thousands of cars. She repeated those sentences over and over in her head as she hit the speed-dial for Selina’s cell phone.

_We’re sorry. The Scott Telecommunications customer that you have dialed is not available. At the tone, please record your message..._

Fighting a tide of rising panic, she took a deep breath. “Selina, please call...”


	30. 29. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to PJ for police procedure consultation.
> 
> "Chain Reaction" written by Paul Brandt, Josh Leo, and Rick Bowles. Recorded by Paul Brandt on his Outside the Frame album (Reprise, 1997).

_My heart started pounding in my chest_  
 _Like a runaway train_  
 _I felt my hands start to sweat_  
 _And my knees start to buckle_  
 _A shiver down my spine_  
 _And I knew I was in trouble_

— _Paul Brandt, Josh Leo, Rick Bowles, "Chain Reaction"_

**Chapter 29—Trouble**

Once upon a time, if a friend of hers had been in danger—perhaps missing, perhaps hurt—Barbara wouldn't have thought twice. She would have suited up, cast a grapnel, and gone swinging out to look for them. And even though, as Oracle, her tracking methods were far more thorough these days, she missed that time when she could have searched in person. There was something satisfying about investigating at street level—a certain sense of accomplishment, of excitement that just couldn't be matched sitting at a computer. Yes, the computer was usually faster, but it wasn't the same.

Right now, though, the computer wasn't faster. It was useless. Frustrated, she replayed her recording of the live news coverage of the parking lot outside the medical center. Scattered across the lot was an assortment of blackened, twisted, and melted... material, which Barbara could only assume had once been car parts. The outside of the medical center appeared dingy, streaked with soot and ash. There were several other cars in the lot and all bore dents and cracked and shattered windows. According to those who had witnessed the explosion, one of the parked cars had gone up like a fireball, showering debris. Thus far, rescue crews had not been able to determine whether anyone had been inside or nearby. They hadn't even been able to identify the make or model of the car, though they believed that at least one of its fenders had been blue.

Barbara pulled up a file. Bruce owned three blue cars: a Camry, a Subaru, and an Aston Martin. He also owned a number of green, grey, and black ones, and a fire engine red Porsche. Selina hadn't mentioned which one she'd planned to drive when they'd spoken earlier.

Her phone rang and she glanced at the caller display. "Daddy?" She was grateful that he knew about Oracle. She didn't have to pretend she wasn't frantic.

"I just got your message," Gordon rumbled. "What's going on?"

Barbara took a steadying breath. "The other day, I received a tip that some of the wrong people knew about Helena. I don't know how much they found out, but since Bruce has been trying to keep her existence under wraps..." She was rambling. Her father disliked rambling. Forcing herself to stick to the facts, she tersely related her efforts to contact Bruce and Selina, her earlier conversation with the latter, and the breaking news about the explosion. "I don't even know," she concluded, "which doctor Selina was going to see or whether that was her car that exploded, but I've been trying to reach her cell phone since I heard about the blast and she's not picking up."

"It was in the East End?" Jim didn't wait for her response. "That's Fourteenth Precinct. I have some contacts there. Let me make a few phone calls. I won't find anything out right away; not while CSI is still at the blast site, but I should be able to learn a few details they won't share with the public so quickly."

Barbara exhaled. "Thank you."

"Meanwhile," Jim continued, "keep trying Selina. If she's all right, you'll probably find that out before I get anything out of Fourteenth. I'll... let Bruce know."

One more burden eased. She closed her eyes. "Thank you."

"One thing I've learned from watching you people," Jim added, "is that you've got ways of beating odds and expectations, more often than not. For now, let's work as though we know they're both okay and search for evidence to back that up. That being said, I won't tell you not to worry, because you are and you will until you do hear that they're okay. Just don't let that worry paralyze you into inaction."

He was right. She knew that. She forced herself to smile, knowing that the expression would come through in her voice. "I won't."

"And keep me posted if you do hear anything."

"I will."

* * *

Their lives had been saved by a gust of wind and an automatic car door opener. Selina had activated the device from fifteen feet away when the wind had blown the appointment card out of her hand. She swallowed a curse—Helena was beginning to parrot back more words these days and there were a few that Selina didn't want her to learn quite yet—and took off after the card. It touched down between two parked cars and she'd been stooping to pick it up when the sound of the explosion filled the air. With reflexes honed by years of survival and of operating on both sides of the law—with all the dangers that implied—she'd unsnapped Helena's shoulder straps, pulled her daughter protectively onto her lap, and lifted the stroller over her head to shield them from the rain of fire coming down upon them. When a spark ignited the canopy, she tossed the stroller aside and made a run for it. She had to move now. Whoever had set that bomb might still be nearby.

It was hard to move fast while bent over, but Selina had no intention of poking her head higher than the hoods of the cars she was using for cover. Her purse caught on something and she tried to jerk it free. She heard a loud crack. It could have been a secondary explosion. It could also have been a gunshot. And whatever it was, it was uncomfortably close to her position. Selina slid her purse strap off her arm, whispered a quick reassurance to the wide-eyed little girl in her arms, and ran.

Ten minutes later, she knocked on the brown-painted steel back door of a local greasy spoon. It seemed like an eternity before it opened. "Yeah, what is it?" Then the man took a good look at her face. "You?!"

Selina smiled weakly. "I'm calling in that favor you owe me, Santiago. We need a place to crash."

Immediately, Santiago opened the door wider and she sighed in relief. She should call Bruce and let him know that she was all right. She reached for her purse and then realized that she'd left it—and her cell phone—in the parking lot. That was when the stress of the last fifteen minutes began to tell on Helena. The little girl started to wail and all thoughts of her cell phone temporarily fled as Selina tried to soothe her agitated daughter.

* * *

Bruce didn't check his cell phone messages until he'd parked his car in the manor's garage, but when he did, he bolted upstairs, his heart in his throat. He'd heard about the explosion in the lot on his way home, but he hadn't connected it with... He raced into the house and nearly tripped over a wooden block. The manor was silent. He wanted to shout Selina's name, but to his horror, his voice came out as a croak.

In the hall, his phone was flashing to indicate voice mail. He waited impatiently as he heard Barbara's voice asking him to call her. There were four hang-up calls, all from an unlisted number. That didn't mean anything. Barbara's main contact number was unlisted. In all likelihood, when he hadn't called back, she'd kept phoning but hadn't bothered leaving additional messages.

"Bruce, Barbara's been trying to reach you. If you haven't called her yet, knock on my door. If you have," Jim's voice was weary, "I hope you'll call on me anyway."

Selina. Helena. Bruce's heart was pounding. He had to find them and he didn't want to drive aimlessly up and down the city streets. There had to be a spare costume in the Cave. Dick couldn't have removed all of them. He'd settle for the old version with the blue trunks and the yellow circle around the symbol if he had to, but there was no way that he could sit here waiting for news. He had to get out there and find them. He knew he'd as good as promised Selina that in circumstances such as these, he'd sit out and put someone he trusted on the job. He didn't care. His daughter and the woman he loved were missing and he wasn't going to stay on the sidelines. He—

"Bruce, it's me. I know I should have called your cell phone, but I never memorized that number and it's written down in my purse... which I don't have on me. Long story. Anyway, in case you haven't already heard, we've had some excitement. We're fine. Both of us. But... we won't be home tonight. I don't think the manor is safe right now. Whoever did this had to be watching it. I'm going off the grid for a few days. I'll get word to you through Oracle as soon as I can. And Bruce? I know you will anyway, but I have to say it: do not blame yourself. This wasn't your fault. Don't twist it around until you've convinced yourself that it is. I'll talk to you soon. Love you." A moment later, the tone sounded to indicate that the message was over.

Bruce exhaled. They were alive... no thanks to him. His jaw hardened as he headed down to the cave. No, he wasn't going to risk the costume if they were safe, but he did mean to check the perimeter security logs to see if he could get a glimpse of whoever had the manor under surveillance.

* * *

When Selina awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Through the sunlight that filtered in via dusty gray venetian blinds, she could see that she was lying on a foldout sofa. The mattress was better than several she'd had occasion to crash on in the past, but it was a dismal second to her bed at the manor. She turned her head to one side and saw Helena sleeping peacefully on a second mattress on the floor. She tiptoed cautiously to the door and eased it open. From another room down the hall, light snores reached her ears. She smiled. Jorge Santiago's restaurant rarely closed before two in the morning and he still had to stay for over an hour most nights, cleaning up. It wasn't even seven yet. Let the man have his sleep. Meanwhile, she and Helena needed to be well away from here before the city fully awoke.

A half hour later, she and Helena were on a bus bound for Cathedral Square. She knew that Bruce had a safe house less than a block away. Helena looked about curiously, but kept silent. Selina suspected that yesterday's upheaval and the current unfamiliar surroundings had contributed to her daughter's unease. She rocked the little girl gently, making soothing noises. After a moment, Helena snuggled closer and popped her thumb into her mouth. Another time, Selina would have removed it, but the last thing she wanted was for Helena to start whimpering, perhaps drawing the attention of the other passengers. She tried to relax and peered out the window as the neo-Gothic facades of the Old City Hall district yielded to red-brick Romanesque styling, a sure sign that they were nearing the cathedral. She got off amid a crowd of passengers, many of whom were attending morning mass before starting their workday, and hurried across the square and down a stairwell beneath a sign indicating subway access. On the second landing, she stopped before a steel door with a 'No Admittance' sign prominently displayed. After making sure that there was nobody approaching from either direction, she punched a four-digit code into the keypad panel and tugged at the iron handle. The door opened with only the faintest of creaks. "Bruce, you need to oil this," she murmured as she stepped into the passageway beyond.

A moment later, an irritated man in a rumpled suit made a phone call. "I think I lost her in the subway. Once I got down the stairs, I couldn't spot her. One possibility: as I was coming around the bend in the stairwell, I believe I saw a maintenance door close. It could have been her or it could have been a worker. I don't know. We'll have to hack the security tapes to find out what happened." He listened to the voice on the other end. "Yeah, I'll hang around for a bit and see if she turns up, but I don't believe she will. At least, not now..."

* * *

Despite his concern for Selina, Bruce was at the academy on time the next day. The meditation techniques he'd studied in his youth helped him to suppress his worry and direct his attention to his classwork.

He had something else to take care of as well. Instead of eating lunch in the cafeteria, he'd stuffed two energy bars into a paper bag on his way out the door that morning. He devoured them on his way to the administration building, disposing of the wrappers in the trash as he walked in. He took a moment to wash his hands before proceeding to MacInnes's office.

"Come," the captain said in response to Bruce's knock. His eyebrows lifted when he saw who it was. "Cadet Wayne. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "Sir, it's with regard to the Jandt situation."

MacInnes kept his face impassive. "Having a rough time of it, are you?"

Two could play at poker. "With respect, sir, that's irrelevant." Now Bruce saw a muscle twitch in the Captain's cheek as he fought to conceal his surprise.

"Why are you here, Cadet?"

"Captain," Bruce said, taking another breath, "I would like to speak on Cadet Jandt's behalf at the inquiry."

"Why?" It wasn't a question so much as a demand. "From all accounts, the two of you are hardly friends."

"Respectfully again, sir, that's not relevant. It isn't right for Cadet Jandt is to be held accountable for infractions or crimes committed while under the Mad Hatter's control. Sir."

MacInnes busied himself with a folder on his desk. "Have you mentioned your concern to your RTO?"

"I have, sir."

"What did he advise you?"

Bruce kept his tone even. "Sir, he told me that the matter was not my concern."

"So you're going over his head."

"Sir—"

MacInnes sighed. "You can drop the 'sirs', Cadet. Explain yourself and make it good."

Since the captain hadn't told him to stand at ease, Bruce remained at attention. "Captain, as I said, my personal feelings regarding Cadet Jandt aren't relevant. What is relevant is that as a police academy cadet, I have a responsibility to look out for my fellow officers and cadets. As a squad leader, the responsibility is even greater. I had a further obligation to report the incident I observed, but that shouldn't negate my other responsibilities. Cadet Jandt should not have been drinking to excess. That goes without saying, sir. However, it's my understanding that while DWI is grounds for expulsion, mere drinking to excess does not carry this penalty. Cadet Jandt does not have a history of driving drunk. I firmly believe that he would not have got behind the wheel had the Mad Hatter not been controlling him."

MacInnes grunted. "One. Judgment has not yet been rendered in this case. Two. This is currently an Internal Affairs matter. As such, I'm not at liberty to discuss how it's being handled. You'd be better served directing your concerns to the Independent Police Auditor."

"Sir?"

"The contact information is in your handbook, along with a description of the powers and responsibilities of that office. Is there anything further?"

Bruce hesitated for a fraction of a moment. "No, sir."

"Dismissed."

Bruce saluted smartly and exited. MacInnes watched him go and shook his head with a faint smile. Just when he thought he'd taken the cadet's measure, something happened to make him reassess his opinions.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without incident. Bruce was walking back to his car when his phone vibrated, indicating receipt of a new text. He pulled out the phone.

 _Bat Cave 3 sensors detected Selina and Helena as of 0759 today_ , Barbara's message read. _They didn't try to make contact. Lie low. Remember, Selina suspected that the manor was under surveillance. You may be, too. They're ok._

Bruce let out a long breath. As much as he wanted to drive downtown now and pick them up, he recognized the need for caution. If he was being watched, the last thing he wanted to do was lead his enemies to one of his bases of operation. They were in a safe place. They were fine. He just wished that they'd report in.

 _Acknowledged_ , he typed back. _Keep me posted._ He hesitated for the briefest of instances before adding one more word. _Thanks._

Even if he hadn't been working on recognition and appreciation with Alex, Bruce was certain that he would have recognized in Barbara's message something for which he could be grateful.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Fox?" At Lucius' mock glower, Dick smiled self-consciously. "Sorry. Lucius."

Lucius Fox's face relaxed in a smile of its own. "I'd hoped you'd be used to it by now. Sit down," he gestured toward one of the two padded armchairs before his desk. "I've received some information about what happened at the gala and I'd like to know your thoughts."

Dick's expression turned serious. "I'm listening."

"One of our junior executives approached me last week and admitted that he was responsible for those seating arrangements. He claims that it was Paxton's idea."

Fox's phrasing gave Dick pause. He leaned forward, frowning. "You doubt him?"

"I'm not sure," Lucius admitted. "You see, the junior executive just happens to be the one who noticed that creative accounting trick you pulled at the time that all of this trouble started. Back then, he couldn't wait to rush to Paxton with his findings."

"Back then," Dick said thoughtfully, "how secure would you have considered Paxton's position with WE? PMWE," he amended, but Lucius just smiled.

"I liked it better the first way," he replied. "And back then? Paxton was virtually untouchable. He had the full confidence of the board and the shareholders. Many analysts went so far as to credit him with keeping our stock values high after Bruce's troubles."

"And now that his star is on the decline someone's rushing to you with more mud to sling at him." Dick gave him a crooked smile. "Why am I thinking of rats and sinking ships?"

"The same could be said for most of Paxton's camp," Lucius said mildly. "The real question," he continued, his gaze direct behind steel-rimmed glasses, "is whether the executive in question was merely privy to Paxton's scheme, or whether he was involved. It wouldn't be the first time that a... minnow got the idea of saving his own skin by shoving a bigger fish toward the hook."

"What do you think?"

Lucius sighed. "I don't know. It's possible that Paxton did cook up the whole thing and just took the junior exec into his confidence. If that's the case, honestly, I don't think we need to take any further action. Paxton is in plenty of hot water already. There's no need to add another kettle when, if you'll excuse the expression, his goose is already cooked. But if he was working with the exec... or if the exec was actually the instigator..."

"I can't help noticing you're leaving his name out of it."

Lucius nodded. "I haven't got a shred of proof that the exec is anything other than a loyal employee who developed some well-founded suspicions about his mentor's behavior. I want to stress this. We don't know that he's done anything wrong."

"Mr... Lucius," Dick corrected himself, "I understand. But you wouldn't be telling me any of this if you didn't have some reason to think otherwise."

Lucius nodded again. "Call it a gut feeling. Or call it an innate distrust of anyone who talks too smoothly. Or," he frowned, "call it an automatic dislike for people who like to give a little extra shove to someone already on the way down. I don't know." He scribbled a name on a block pad and ripped the top sheet off. "I'm not even sure if it bears investigating, but consider this a friendly warning about being on your guard should you talk to him."

Dick read the name and frowned. He knew Derek Powers slightly and he agreed with Lucius's assessment: the guy was slick. It didn't necessarily mean he was bad news, though. "Thanks," he said, pocketing the paper. "I'll keep it in mind."

"How are things going with Sal Fiorini?"

Dick smiled. "Great."

"Good."

* * *

Cassandra Cain nervously approached a cosmetics counter at Killinger's department store and stared at the vast array of lipsticks, colored powders, and bottles of liquid in various shades of beige and brown. Her heart began to pound. How on earth was she to know what she needed?

She tried to remember the rare occasions that she'd worn make-up. She'd never really got beyond black mascara. She'd tried eyeliner with poor results—she'd drawn the line too far below her eye and ended up looking like a raccoon, or so Stephanie had told her at the time. And the one thing she knew was that purple lipstick was out. She panned the lipstick display and gave a mental groan. There were probably two hundred shades on the counter and she'd only managed to eliminate around fifteen!

"May I help you?"

Cass looked up to see a sales attendant standing on the other side of the counter, looking across. She took a deep breath. "I... never wear... this." She spread her hands wide over the entire display. "I... How do I... start?"

The attendant smiled. "It can get a little overwhelming. Are you looking for something for day or night?"

She blinked. "It matters?"

The attendant seemed startled, but Cass noted that she hid her surprise quickly. "It can," she said. "If you don't mind my asking, if you don't usually wear make-up, what made you decide to start today?"

Cass sighed. "Date. I... have a date."

"Oh! Well, congratulations!" Her face relaxed in a genuine smile. "Okay. Do you know what you're going to be doing or where you're going?"

Cass nodded. "Concert."

"Okay, what kind of music?"

"Classical." She thought for a moment. "In evening," she added. "Seven PM." If the time of day made a difference, then she might as well get it right.

The attendant's body language relaxed. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. It's an evening event, probably dressy-casual... you want to look great, but you don't really want to go flashy, especially since it's very easy to overdo your make-up if you aren't used to wearing it. Here," she beckoned Cass over to a triptych mirror with numerous light bulbs surrounding the frames. Then she came out from behind the counter to stand behind Cass. "With your coloring, I think..." Her voice trailed off as she paused for a moment, considering. Then she reached for a tester bottle, unscrewed the cap and shook a small amount of a light golden brown powder into it. "I'd recommend going with a natural look. This," she picked up a brush and touched it gently down into the cap, "is called 'Golden Ivory,'" she said. "Let me brush a little bit onto your wrist so that you can see what it looks like on your skin..."

* * *

"It's her," Mr. Fixx confirmed, looking at the security footage. He zoomed in on the computerized keypad with a frown. "I can't make out the code she's punching." It didn't really matter. He hadn't expected that they'd be able to sneak into whatever hidey-hole she'd managed to reach. They wouldn't be able to seize her unawares.

"Send a team. Six agents and enough explosives to take out a steel door. If you can't take them alive, don't leave any bodies behind." As long as it couldn't be _proven_ that they were dead, he still might be able to keep Batman dancing to his tune for a little while. Long enough to gain Intergang the toehold it had been seeking. With confirmed deaths, on the other hand, he knew that Batman would never rest until he had taken out the parties responsible. No, while he preferred to keep them alive, if that couldn't be managed, he had to ensure that Batman and his people wouldn't learn otherwise until Intergang had consolidated their position.

* * *

"Copy that," Batman said. "We're keeping an eye on Port Adams at the moment; Montoya tipped us off that a shipment of crystal meth is expected to arrive at some time this evening. The welcome wagon is already assembling, so it shouldn't be too much longer. Police are standing by; we're here in case things get ugly. Once that's over, we can head over to Three and check on Selina." He surveyed the water, glad that he had an infra-red scanner for this fog.

"Acknowledged," Bruce's voice came through clearly over his comm-link. "How well-provisioned is that facility?"

"Hang on." Batman turned to Harrier with a frown.

"Have you had to resupply out of Cave Three at all in the last few months?"

The younger vigilante thought for a moment. "I may have needed an Ace bandage or the odd energy bar, but not much more than that."

"Same." He opened his comm-link again.

"Sorry about that, Bruce," he said. "I was just checking with Harrier. Everything should be pretty much untouched."

"Find out if she needs anything," Bruce ordered. "In fact... the Bru-Bakery should be open through the night. Pick up something fresh. Rolls, croissants... something better than the three-year-old crackers in the cave stocks."

"Which would be anything."

"Exactly."

Harrier nudged him then. "Showtime?" he asked, pointing to a dark shape in the water drawing steadily closer.

Batman nodded. "You got it. Later, Bruce. We're up." He closed the comm-link again and readied a batarang.

* * *

Selina opened a can of ravioli in sauce, poured it into ceramic bowl and popped it into the microwave. "Supper will be ready in a minute, Helena," she said, sighing as she watched her daughter clutch one of the supporting legs of the vaulting horse and spin around, laughing. "Don't get dizzy," she cautioned.

Unlike the cave under the manor, this facility was far from childproof. Selina was just happy that her daughter had found something to amuse herself in the training area. The equipment was solid and the floor covered in mats. She'd taken the precaution of draping the free weight racks with sheets she'd found in a medical bay supply closet and using several of the fifty-pound weights to hold them down. She was more worried about the stacked weight machines. Helena could probably lift about twenty pounds. Most of the machines used racks of ten-pound weights. Selina could easily picture Helena lifting the top weight in the rack by hand... and then losing her grip and having it fall on her fingers. So far, Selina had been successful in keeping her daughter away from the machines, but dreaded the times when she had to turn her back for a moment.

Sooner or later, though, they were both going to have to sleep. And if Helena woke before she did, and decided to explore, there were just too many hazards in here. She sighed. She was going to have to improvise some sort of secure play area. Unfortunately, most of the equipment that was too solid to be knocked over was also too heavy to move. Or it involved electrical cords, delicate electronics, sharp corners, or other problems that made it unsuitable.

The microwave dinged and Selina set the bowl on the counter to cool. She debated calling the manor, but Bruce probably wasn't home yet.

The fact that someone had been keeping tabs on her had her rattled. Could whoever it was be tapping Bruce's phones? Normally, she would have dismissed the idea as ludicrous, but Bruce _was_ spending long hours away from the manor. If she and Helena were out, there were stretches of time when nobody was home and a clever intruder could theoretically get in. She felt a cold sensation in the pit of her stomach. She'd forgotten about the cleaning staff. Jim had hired them from a reputable agency. For the most part, they did their work quietly and unobtrusively, and then left just as quietly and unobtrusively. However, if one of those employees had somehow been compromised, they _could_ have bugged a phone in an out-of-the-way spare bedroom or study. She shook her head, knowing that her thoughts were verging on paranoia. It _was_ possible, though. And after having her car blow up only a few yards away from where she'd been standing yesterday, maybe she was right to be paranoid.

Selina frowned. She'd told Bruce that she would reach him through Oracle. The problem was that she didn't know Barbara's telephone number. There were very few that she had memorized. In general, she relied on the contact list in the cell phone that she no longer had on her. She sighed. While she had no doubt that the information was stored here in this cave, she had no idea what password Bruce might have been using three years ago. She also had no idea what sort of alarms she might trip if she guessed wrong. She resolved not to worry about it tonight. Bruce knew that she and Helena were safe. That was enough. Tomorrow, she could call PMWE and ask for Dick's extension. He could give her Barbara's number or pass on a message. And if he wasn't in, perhaps Directory Assistance would come through with Helena Bertinelli's contact information. Dinah and Zinda probably had unlisted numbers; their identities were publicly known. After Dick, Helena was her best bet.

She placed two thick medical textbooks on an ergonomic desk chair. It wasn't an ideal booster seat but it would do. "Helena," she called. "Supper. Come wash your hands."

Hopefully, she'd be able to pass her concerns on to Barbara tomorrow. Meanwhile, she still had to think about the best way to childproof part of the cave.

* * *

Although Intergang no longer used Apokoliptian technology, they were well-equipped by most standards. The six-man team assembled before the locked steel door was decked out in full riot gear and carried a variety of automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

"All clear above," advised the gunman standing closest to street level on the narrow stair.

"All clear below," returned the gunman nearest the subway entrance at the bottom of the stair.

The leader nodded and motioned to the other three men. "Aim for the lock and the hinges," he ordered. "On my mark..."


	31. Stand Up and Face a Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for confirming that a throwing star can't shear a gun barrel. IPA procedures for the GCPD mirror those detailed on the San Jose official website.
> 
> A/N: "Steal Your Rock 'n' Roll" written by David Bryan and Joe DiPietro. Recorded by Chad Kimball, Montego Glover, and the original cast on the _Memphis_ original soundtrack album (Rhino, 2010).

_First comes a point in everybody's life_  
When they gotta stand up and face a fight.  
There comes a point in everybody's life,  
When they gotta wonder if they done right. 

— _David Bryan and Joe DiPietro, "Steal Your Rock 'n' Roll"_

**Chapter 30—Stand Up and Face a Fight**

A throwing star could only shear the muzzle from a gun in a cheesy action-comedy film. Launching the projectile from a machine might achieve better results, but a human being simply could not achieve the necessary velocity. If anything, the sharp points on the star would do more damage to the thrower's hand than to any hollow steel shaft. In that regard, Dick suspected that using batarangs against guns would have a similar outcome. However, using batarangs against the gangsters themselves—even though they were garbed in lined trench coats and leather gloves—achieved markedly different results.

The lookout at the top of the subway stairs went down with a strangled cry and two 'rangs in his forearm. Almost in the same instant, a smooth ceramic "boulder" marble, notable for being—at one inch in diameter—nearly twice the size of most standard varieties, slammed into the man's hand. His gun clattered down the concrete steps. Harrier slipped another marble into the pocket of his sling, while thanking his stars that the lookout had kept the safety on. From the frown Batman directed at him, it was clear that he was thinking the same thing. Harrier shrugged his shoulders apologetically and let the next boulder fly, barely pausing to discharge a third.

The two gangsters at the back tried to take aim, but in the narrow stairwell, it was impossible for them to draw a bead without risking hitting their companions. Once disarmed, one tried to flee the hail of batarangs, but was almost immediately apprehended by Gotham Transit Authority enforcement officers. Batman allowed himself a brief smile when he saw the officers approach the stairway.

"We can take care of them from here, Batman," one announced, hauling a fallen thug to his feet. "I'm guessing that the police will know what to charge them with?" Behind him, another officer spoke quickly into his radio, requesting backup.

"If they don't," Batman replied, "we'll fill them in." He and Harrier advanced menacingly toward the other wounded men. They shrank back nervously.

"It's us or the subway cops," Harrier pointed out. "Who would you rather surrender to?"

When the thugs exchanged dejected looks and edged closer to the TAE officers, the younger vigilante's lips twitched. "I guess you were right, Batman," he said. "They _are_ smarter than the average bear."

This time, Batman's smile lasted longer. He looked at the officers, noting with satisfaction that four more had already arrived at the scene. "Appreciate the assistance," he said. "Sorry about the noise."

Under the watchful eyes of the two vigilantes, the TAE took the would-be shooters away. Only after the stairwell was empty once more did Batman direct his attention to the code panel on the maintenance door.

* * *

Selina waited, smoke grenade in hand, as the iron door slowly opened. When she saw Batman and Harrier enter, she set the device down with a sigh of relief.

"I haven't got the passwords for the surveillance equipment here," she explained. "I got a warning tone when you punched the code in, but I couldn't access the cameras to see who it was."

"Understandable," Batman said, tugging back his cowl. "Bruce wouldn't have changed them since he was away. I'm not sure I know them myself. You almost had some excitement a couple of minutes ago, though," he said, his expression turning serious, even as he sent a friendly wave to Helena. The little girl giggled and ducked under the table.

Selina's green eyes widened. "What?"

Harrier filled her in tersely on the details. "Too well equipped to be run-of-the-mill mobsters," he added. "Those guns were top of the line and they were packing C-4, too." He sighed. "I wish we could have kept one for questioning, but the transit cops were a little too quick to respond." He scowled. "Not that I should be complaining, but..."

"But you a-are," Dick drawled in a sing-song voice.

Harrier tried to look annoyed. "It would have been nice to have someone to question," he said plaintively.

"Oh, I would have had a few questions for him," Selina replied with a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"By the way," Dick said, taking two brown paper bags out from somewhere within the folds of his cape, "Bruce sent these for breakfast. Or at least, he told us to exercise our judgment in making a selection, but it was his idea."

Selina accepted them with a smile. "Raisin scones?" she asked. "I'd say your judgment got a good workout." She rolled her eyes. "Which, incidentally, is what I'll need after I eat a couple of these." She opened the second bag and inhaled deeply. "The rolls must have just come out of the oven!" she exclaimed. "Thank you!"

Her expression turned serious. "You realize that we can't stay here now, though. Not if someone's already tried to break in."

The two young men exchanged a quick look and nodded reluctantly. "Oracle knows of some safe-houses," Harrier said. "Some of them aren't in Bruce's files. You should contact her."

"I'd love to," Selina retorted. "It's a bit difficult at the moment, though." She explained tersely about the cell phone.

Dick frowned. "Was it locked? Did you report it stolen?"

"Yes to both. Credit cards have been cancelled too... oh!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "I use a service for my cards: call one number and the company takes care of shutting down the accounts, but Bruce also gave me a card just before we went to the Solomons, and that one's not on my list. Tell him, won't you?"

"Sure." Dick scribbled a ten-digit number on the top sheet of a block pad, which he then ripped off and handed to Selina. "That's the best way to reach Oracle for now." He hesitated. "Do you want us to take Helena back to the manor?"

"Yes," Selina admitted, "but right now, I'm not sure that's safest." She thought for a moment. "Are you two done with patrol for the night?"

"Unless we see something on the way back," Harrier nodded.

"Okay. Okay," she took a deep breath. "Hang around for a minute or two. I'll call Oracle now and see what she's got. If this place has been compromised, we need to move out ASAP. If she has a better location for us tonight, can you...?"

Dick bowed and extended his arm. "Madam, it would be our pleasure to escort you."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help smiling. Then she walked over to the phone console while Dick started to gather up Helena's outerwear.

* * *

"So I figured I'd fill you in, Boss," Oracle said cheerily. "Right now they're at..."

Bruce held up a hand to the vid-screen, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "No."

"I beg your pardon."

Bruce fought to keep his voice steady. "You've told me they're safe. That's all I need to know."

Barbara shook her head in disbelief. "You mean you aren't even going to visit them."

"I believe that to be unwise at present," Bruce replied. "Don't you?" He ended the connection before she could respond.

Alone in the cave, his fist pounded the arm of his chair. Of course he wanted to visit them, to see with his own eyes that they were well. But if Selina had been right about the manor being under surveillance, he couldn't take the chance. He only hoped that whoever their unknown spy might be, they hadn't uncovered the cave. If they had, if they were monitoring his communications down here, then it was probable that Oracle's security had been compromised as well.

Not for the first time, he wished that she would keep her holographic avatar up whenever initiating contact. He shook his head. If the cave was under observation, then the damage was already done and Barbara's home defenses were almost as formidable as his own. If it wasn't... if it wasn't, then he still didn't want to continue the conversation. If Barbara persisted with her arguments, there was every reason to believe that he would allow himself to be convinced. And if he led their adversaries to her new safe-house, he would never forgive himself, should anything happen.

* * *

Filing a complaint with the Independent Police Auditor was an option open to all individuals who had dealings with the GCPD, whether cop or civilian. In point of fact, it was generally the purview of the latter, though police personnel weren't barred from doing so.

After reading the information in the Academy handbook and corroborating the data with that found on the municipal website for Gotham City, Bruce realized that using this channel was likely to lose him any supporters he still had at the academy. This would be like... he frowned. As a member of the Justice League, he'd carried UN sanction. While the League did operate independently, the sanction meant that the UN had technical oversight. If Bruce were to file a complaint with the IPA, it would be like Robin complaining to the UN because he disagreed with one of Batman's decisions.

He had no illusions about _that_ going over well. However, that wasn't the point. Either the manual on police ethics detailed a code to live by, or it was so much theoretical material to be parroted back on an examination and never taken seriously again. Despite the jibes and cracks he'd been enduring thus far, he couldn't accept that it was the latter.

He checked the site again. Complaints could be filed in person, over the telephone, or in writing via mail or email and he would receive a summary of his complaint, complete with a case number and the name of the officer assigned to resolve the matter within thirty days. Bruce sighed. Much as he would have preferred to go in person, the office's business hours conflicted with his academy schedule. He didn't trust the telephone. It was too easy for information to be taken down incorrectly. He flexed his fingers, brought up his email and began to type up the details. He would attach a copy of the report he'd initially sent to Fochs and, if he didn't hear back within the thirty day timeframe, he would follow up with a hardcopy via registered mail.

At the back of his mind, a voice once more demanded to know why he was doing this. It wasn't as though Jandt had been some sort of model cadet before this incident. That wasn't the point. Jandt had been coerced into getting behind the wheel. It hadn't been a lapse of judgment brought on by intoxication. Jandt had literally been under someone else's control. If drinking to excess was an offense punished by automatic expulsion, Bruce wouldn't have taken things this far; nobody had force-fed Jandt those drinks. But to expel him for something he hadn't been able to help—getting behind the wheel while intoxicated—offended Bruce's sense of justice. He'd been duty-bound to file his initial report, but wasn't he also duty-bound to see that the verdict handed down would be fair?

Jim was right about one thing: it wasn't his call in the first place. But if Bruce was to be a part of this service, he wanted to know that those in a position to render judgment were going to be aware of all factors—even if he had to point them out himself.

* * *

When Bruce didn't respond to Jim's voicemail immediately, Jim did not become alarmed. The police academy had a killer workload and it wasn't surprising that, between his regular class work, his squad leader responsibilities, the extra firearms practice that he put himself through, and his normal reserve, Bruce didn't have time for social niceties. Jim was still somewhat surprised each time he turned away from Bruce for a moment and found him still in the room when he turned back. He supposed that expecting a quick reply to his telephone messages was pushing it.

Still, when more than twenty-four hours passed without a response, Jim took the manor key that Bruce had given him out of his desk drawer and started down the quarter-mile path to the kitchen door.

He wasn't expecting anyone to be home. Bruce was supposed to be at the academy and the cleaning staff should have finished by now. His visit was strictly to ensure that Bruce hadn't fallen down a flight of stairs or gotten pinned under that blasted T-Rex in the cave or crushed by that giant coin that looked like it should have been a memento from one of Two-Face's capers instead of the Penny Plunderer's.

A crash from upstairs and an oath from a voice that was definitely _not_ Bruce's interrupted his thoughts. Jim considered for a moment. If this was an intruder, his footfalls on the stairs might tip them off. In anyone else's house, his wisest course of action would be to get out quickly and call 911. However, if it turned out to be one of the cleaning staff, Jim was going to feel rather silly. And if the emergency response team started poking around and found something that Bruce would be hard-pressed to explain, even if Bruce wouldn't blame him for being cautious, Jim would still be kicking himself.

No, before he involved anyone else, he was going to check this out for himself, but he was going to do so quietly. He pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text to his daughter: _At manor. Someone upstairs. Checking now._

He waited for her acknowledgment before adding: _If I don't contact you ASAP send help._

Then he headed for the elevator at the end of the hallway. Under the circumstances, it was a far more discreet option than the stairs. Once on the second floor, he removed his shoes and made his way cautiously down the hall, his stocking feet sinking into the luxurious pile carpet, as he followed the sounds of drawers opening and closing and clicks of metal, wood, and ceramic against polished wood.

The noises were coming from Selina's room. As Jim peered around the doorframe, he saw a woman in the cleaning company's uniform, her back to him, rummaging haphazardly through drawers and cabinets. She seemed frustrated.

Softly, Jim closed the bedroom door and smiled as he saw the electronic keypad. Bruce had installed new locks on the doors to curb Helena's penchant for exploring. He generally left them disengaged during the day, so that the staff could get in to clean and while Jim suspected that Bruce probably would have preferred that each door have its own access code, as a concession to the others residing on the grounds, he'd set a universal PIN instead. Jim smiled and punched it now. The door chimed softly and the LED screen above the keypad changed to read 'LOCKED'.

Jim's smile widened as he heard quick footsteps from inside the room, followed by the sound of someone yanking on the doorknob. With a sense of satisfaction, he took out his cell phone once more, knowing that his daughter was standing by.

* * *

Sergeant Trinity Joyner gaped at her colleague. "Wayne did _what_ , now?" she demanded.

Fochs sighed. "He went to the IPA with his concerns about Jandt. I'm not sure whether to be impressed by his audacity or..." He shook his head. "I _am_ impressed by his audacity. If he were to come to me for advice now, though, I'd have to recommend that he withdraw from the Academy immediately, because if he was getting hell before, he's going to be making the move from Limbo directly to Treachery."

Joyner chuckled. "I never picked you for a Dante fan, Guy."

"That's just because you don't know me very well. What say we change that around eight tomorrow evening?"

Joyner rolled her eyes. "You just don't quit, do you?" She sighed. "So now we have IA _and_ the IPA breathing down our necks about this. Why is Wayne doing this anyway?"

Fochs hesitated. "He didn't inform me. I will say this. He came to me to argue Jandt's case. I know for a fact that when I told him to let the investigators handle it, he went to MacInnes."

"Oh," Joyner drawled. "One of those."

"You're familiar with Batman's record when it comes to following protocol?" Fochs asked. "I want to be very clear that I am not defending his actions. In fact, while I don't normally condone retaliation, if it wasn't explicitly forbidden in these situations, I'm not denying that I'd be tempted to make an exception, but..." He frowned. " _But_ ," he continued, "you take a guy with a clear sense of right and wrong who's used to doing things his way, put him in a situation where his hands are more or less tied, and he's aware that following established protocols might... _might,_ mind you, result in a miscarriage of justice—"

"I read his report," Joyner interrupted. "I know what you're getting at. The easiest thing to do would be to expel Jandt. Right or wrong, it would stick. And..." she took a deep breath, "maybe it would be best. His performance was lackluster before the incident. I know he was barely scraping by. If he'd come to me and said that he wanted to withdraw, I wouldn't have tried very hard to talk him out of it. But Wayne did have a point about the coercion factor."

"Even so, going to the IPA while the investigation is still going on makes it look like he doesn't trust us or the top brass to be thorough enough. Not exactly something that's going to win him any medals."

Joyner nodded. "So, if the pressure gets to be too much for Wayne after this and _he_ wants to withdraw...?"

Fochs shook his head. "He won't. He's got too much riding on this. And everyone here knows it."

"But if he does?"

"At this point?" Fochs sighed. "I'd have to support his decision. Waste of potential, but if he can't learn to trust the chain of command, then maybe he shouldn't be here."

"Then he won't be Batman."

"I know." Foch's lips twitched then. "On the other hand," he continued, "it's a moot point. Like I just said, Wayne won't quit. If we don't kick him out, he'll stay the course if it kills him."

"Not that it's technically designed to accomplish that," Joyner smiled.

"Of course not." He paused for a beat.

"Though some days, everyone wonders," they both said in unison.

* * *

Bruce frowned as he examined his shotgun score. They'd been firing slugs at targets fifty yards away and his accuracy was only at forty percent. He steeled himself mentally for Farnham's usual dressing down. To his surprise, the firearms instructor moved past him to examine Norton's results.

He wondered whether Norton's score had been lower, or whether he'd made a more obvious error, which Farnham wanted to address first, but no... Farnham continued down the row, inspecting and commenting on each score in turn. When he reached the end of the line, he gave the order to reload and repeat the exercise.

This time, Bruce scored a thirty-eight. Farnham bypassed him once more.

"Sir," Bruce ventured.

He turned to look at him then. "Carry on, cadet," he said evenly. He moved past Norton to Ortega.

Bruce frowned, wondering what was going on. When the class was dismissed, he hung back.

Farnham ignored him for several moments, as he made a show of collecting gear and straightening papers. Finally, as though he were doing Bruce a favor, he nodded. "Cadet Wayne?"

"Sir..." Bruce began carefully, "I was wondering whether you had any advice on how to improve my range scores."

Farnham's eyebrows came together in an irritated frown. "Practice, cadet," he said, as though it were obvious.

"Sir..." Bruce repeated.

"Do you have a problem with putting in more practice hours, cadet?"

That stung. "No, sir."

Farnham wasn't done. "Because if you don't like the way I handle the class, cadet... If you think that my methods are improper... Well, cadet, you're certainly free to file a complaint with the IPA. I think you're already familiar with the procedure?"

So. That was it. Bruce bit back a retort. "I am, sir."

Farnham nodded. "I see you understand me. You're dismissed, cadet."

Bruce saluted smartly and trotted back toward the locker room to change into his Class C uniform.

* * *

" _...It has now been confirmed that there were no fatalities in the explosion which destroyed a blue Subaru in an East End parking lot on Monday. Police are seeking information regarding the whereabouts of Selina Kyle, whose handbag was found at the scene. Ms. Kyle, an East End resident, was seen in the vicinity prior to the blast, but has been missing since then. It is believed that she may have witnessed the explosion. The GCPD have yet to confirm whether the explosion was accidental or deliberate. Police are also seeking information regarding the owner of the Subaru, who has not yet come forward. If you are able to assist in either matter, please contact the GCPD tip-line at 555-9207._

" _That's the news. For traffic, we now go to our eye-in-the-sky, Curtis Favreau. Curt?"_

" _Thanks, Mona. The Aparo's moving well southbound from the Kane Bridge to the Sprang..."_

* * *

Derek Powers sipped at his Perrier water and tried to appear relaxed. While meeting in the Iceberg was relatively safe from one perspective—it was hardly a place that other PMWE executives were likely to frequent, it carried its own set of hazards. He wasn't overly concerned about being attacked by one of the bar's more colorful patrons. So far, the tip that he'd received before coming to this place appeared to bear out: so long as he didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother him. No, his chief worry was that several of those more colorful patrons might attack each other, the police would arrive, and all present be taken to the nearest precinct. Even if he weren't involved in any altercations, he didn't have any illusions about the possible ramifications if word got out that a PMWE executive had been arrested. It wouldn't matter if he were then released without being charged. There would be questions about what he'd been doing in a place rumored to be unsavory, a favored haunt of many with known criminal records, and G-d help him if someone with a camera phone caught him in the same frame as the Riddler or Poison Ivy or...

"Sorry I'm late," Mr. Fixx slid into the seat across the table from him with a grace that belied his hulking frame. "I had matters to attend to."

Powers frowned. "I'm not accustomed to being kept waiting," he lied. In point of fact, Paxton often subjected him to that particular indignity. However, he did not intend to allow that state of affairs to persist into the future. "What have you found?"

Fixx sighed. "They escaped the car bomb and the Bats interfered with a team of agents I sent to their last known location to corral them. I still have a set of eyes and ears in Wayne Manor looking for clues that might point the way to other safe-houses. I was hoping that she would have reported in by now, but no luck." He let out another breath. "Unfortunately, she now knows that she's in danger and the Bats are on the alert."

"Yes." Powers took another sip of his Perrier. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Oh. Oh my," he said. "There may yet be a way to turn matters to our advantage and ensure that Lester Paxton finds himself in a good deal more trouble than he already is."

As he began to explain himself, he was gratified to see a similar smile sprout on Mr. Fixx's face.

* * *

Cass bit down on the cap of her pen and tried to concentrate on her essay. The words were proving more elusive than usual today. She looked up to see Dr. Arkham's steel-gray eyes fixed on her with a disapproving glower. She winced. "Sorry."

Dr. Arkham sighed. "Young woman," he said testily, "need I remind you that I am here on a Wednesday at your request, because you believe that you need the extra coaching."

Cass shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Sorry."

"Cass," Dr. Arkham frowned, "is anything wrong?"

"No. Maybe. No." She took a deep breath. "Date. Tomorrow."

The doctor shifted in his chair. "Tomorrow's date marks some unpleasant... anniversary?" he asked in a way that Cass thought sounded almost hopeful.

"N-no," she said, feeling as inadequate as she had the other day at the make-up counter. "I... I have a date. Tomorrow. I guess... nervous."

"Ah." He shifted again, an uncomfortable expression on his face. "Well."

"Doctor Arkham?"

"Well," he said again. "Well... congratulations. I trust it will go well for you. If you were," he swallowed, "if you were thinking to ask me for advice, however..."

Now she _knew_ her cheeks were burning. "No! No. I have... other friends for... that. No. Sorry. Just... just nervous. First date with him. First date in... a long time. No."

Doctor Arkham heaved a sigh of relief. "There's nothing wrong with expanding your social circle," he said. "And it is good that you have others to turn to for assistance in that matter. As for the task at hand, if you truly can't concentrate, then we may as well end this session and meet again at the regular time."

Batman would have insisted that she train regardless of her mood. It was one of a very few traits that he shared with her first mentor, David Cain. She would have understood the insistence, even as part of her resented it. Faced with the opportunity to cut today's session short, however, she balked. "Date is... tomorrow. Won't study then. Need to learn now." She winced. Her speech was always choppier when she was nervous or upset. After all the exposure to language she'd been getting, from her friends, from TV, from the manga, from the GED prep and essay writing... she should be able to speak properly. " _I_ need to learn this now. No matter what I think about. I have to know this. Please."

Doctor Arkham smiled. "In that case, I would make one suggestion."

"Yes?"

"In the list of essay topics, see if you can find one that is relevant to your feelings right now. And if there is not," his lips twitched, "see if you can imagine a topic that would be. Write that down and then create an essay based on it."

She blinked. "That's... Is that allowed?"

"Well," Arkham sighed, "not on the actual test. However, I don't need to remind you that you are preparing for the test by learning to write. For the time being, I see nothing wrong in writing on a topic that currently interests you." At her dubious nod, he smiled again. "Enjoy it while you can, Cass."

She returned his smile cautiously and bent over her page once more.

* * *

If Bruce had thought that he was having a difficult time before, it was as nothing compared to now. Farnham wasn't the only instructor who seemed to look through him, ignoring his questions, disregarding his attempts to participate in discussions, and otherwise treating him as though he were invisible.

His fellow cadets, for the most part, took their tone from the staff. Laramie still muttered the occasional 'Bat-pigeon' under his breath, but most of the others simply moved aside when he drew near. They weren't obvious about avoiding him. They acted as though they hadn't seen him and had been planning to move anyway. However, as it happened every time that Bruce approached, their intent was plain.

The only three to buck the trend were Norton, Brenner, and Ortega, but Bruce tried to keep his interactions with the three brief. He told himself that he didn't care what the others thought about him, although he had to admit that it was an extra stress he didn't need. However, if those others decided to subject anyone associating with him to the same treatment that he was getting, there was no way that he wanted _that_ on his conscience.

"Are you kidding?" Ortega had demanded when Bruce had suggested calling off their Saturday meeting. "Samantha's been begging me to take her back to your place. Apparently, you have the best toys this side of an F.A.O. Schwartz display."

Bruce's lips twitched, even as he berated himself mentally. If he'd only left the pre-school toys up in the attic, Samantha would probably have gotten bored with the toddler toys in the nursery. But no, he'd taken Alfred's teachings to heart and tried to be a good host. "Helena won't be there," he said. "She and her mother needed to go away this weekend."

"Oh," Ortega said. "Well, I think she might be a _little_ disappointed, but she won't mind too much. Unless... you're trying to rescind the invitation?" she ventured.

No. He was trying to make _her_ rescind it. That was different. "I'm not," he said. "However, you might be wise to consider what associating with me will do for your prospects."

"Short-term at the Academy or long-term in the field?" she shot back so quickly that Bruce knew she must have already examined the situation on her own and made up her mind. "I need to master these skills, and honestly? You're the best. Maybe I could try to track down some of the people who taught you, I mean, if they're still alive...?"

"Several," Bruce allowed. Old age and young enemies had thinned the ranks though.

"Okay. But I haven't got the time or the resources to go globetrotting right now and I don't think Samantha would appreciate being yanked from continent to continent and I won't leave my daughter behind for months on end. So, Mister," she clapped her hands to her hips and thrust her chin forward, "it looks like you're it." She tilted her head to one side and the tough pose fell away. "Please?"

Bruce sighed. "Just so long as you realize what you're letting yourself in for."

Brenner hadn't used as many words when Bruce had tried arguing with him, but he'd made it clear where he stood on the matter as well. As for Norton, he seemed as oblivious to the situation as... as the academy instructors purported to be toward Bruce. Any attempt to make him see the light was met with "If I actually cared what people thought, I'd never have applied to the GCPA in the first place. Dad wanted me to be a riding instructor. He came around. So will these clowns."

"Norton..." Bruce had warned.

"Squad Leader Wayne," Norton retorted, "respectfully, just about anytime someone tries to tell me who I should hang out with, I have a tendency to do the opposite. Just thought you should know."

Bruce shook his head. "Fine. In that case, you _should_ stick with me."

"Just _about_ every time, sir." Then, "Would you look at the hour, Squad Leader? We don't have another second to waste talking if we're to get these guys," he gave his mare's neck a gentle scratch, "ready for class. Squad Leader."

After that, he shrugged off Bruce's attempts to keep the conversation going. Oddly enough, Bruce didn't resent being ignored nearly as much this time.

* * *

Dick usually avoided the cafeteria at PMWE. Barbara's lunches were better than the daily specials any day of the week and if she was too busy to prepare one, he was just as capable of slapping a filling between two slices of bread and grabbing a couple of snacks and a drink as anyone else. Of course, every so often, it happened that Dick stumbled in from patrol at four in the morning, to find that Oracle was still up—researching ancient Phoenician mythology for the Teen Titans, while trying to safely deactivate the lock on Ultra-Humanite's invisible car for the JSA and simultaneously listening to the feed from the Birds of Prey, who were operating undercover and needed her to feed them the information they required to avoid arousing suspicion.

Generally, PMWE allowed him to be flexible with his hours, but on days when there was a departmental meeting at 9:30, he knew that he was expected to be there, no matter what time he'd gone to bed the night before. Today was definitely a 'grab an energy bar for breakfast on the way out the door and buy lunch' day.

There were mountains of work to get through. The department was getting a quality audit next week and Sal had emailed him a checklist that would probably have depleted an acre or two of the Brazilian rain forest, had it been a hardcopy. He didn't take lunch until nearly 3:30.

He was just crunching the last bite of his biscotti on the way back to his office, when he heard someone calling his name. He turned around and tried to hide his surprise when Derek Powers strode up.

"I need to talk to you," Powers said without preamble. "Paxton's gone too far this time."


	32. 31. When Right Seems Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Description of Planet Krypton Restaurant is adapted from _The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City_ by Matt Brady and Dwight Williams (Honesdale, PA: WEG, 2000), pages 89–90. Barbara's security code combination explained in Nightwing Vol. 1 #39.
> 
> "Never Going Back" written by Mike Curtis, Troy Powers, Colin Raye, and Brittany Raye. Recorded by Colin Raye on his _Never Going Back_ album (Time-Life, 2009).
> 
> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

_This crazy world is rarely black and white_  
 _Sometimes right seems wrong but wrong feels right_  
 _Follow your heart but don't you get burned..._

— _Mike Curtis, Troy Powers, Colin Raye, Brittany Raye, "Never Going Back"_

  
**Chapter 31—When Right Seems Wrong**

Dick assumed an expression of polite interest, even as he felt an imaginary cape and cowl settle over him. A side of him that usually only clocked on outside normal working hours sprang to life and started taking mental notes. His voice, however, remained calm, friendly, and faintly puzzled. "How exactly do you mean, Mr. Powers?" he asked, consciously interjecting the note of slight deference that a low-to-mid-level employee (no matter how well connected) tended to give to a ranking executive (no matter how junior), corporate culture of openness and approachability notwithstanding.

Powers smiled warmly and placed a genial hand on Dick's shoulders. "Dick, please! Call me Derek. After all, I'm only a few years older than you. I think we were even in high school together."

They'd overlapped by a year, but Derek shouldn't have brought it up. Dick had more-or-less forgotten it until now. New to Crest Hill Elementary, Dick had spent most of fourth grade trying to ignore or (at least!) not permanently injure the group of bullies who had taken it upon themselves to remind him daily that he wasn't _really_ one of them and never would be. By the time that September and fifth grade had rolled around, some of the worst of that lot had graduated to middle school, he'd made a few friends, and the fights soon gave way to verbal jabs that gradually faded over the next few years.

In high school, it had started again. Maybe someone had felt faint at the thought of the circus orphan dating, perhaps one day even _marrying_ , one of the debutantes who could trace her family back to the _Mayflower_ and would likely join the DAR as soon as she turned 18.

Derek had never exactly been one of those who had harassed or insulted him, but Dick had noted a pattern. If he so much as glanced at a girl or uttered something as innocuous as a greeting when Derek was in earshot or eyeshot, then later that day (or first thing the next morning, if it happened after the last bell rang), Dick could almost count on being slammed against a locker and given a strong 'warning' to keep away from "Gwendolyn" or "Mavis" or whichever young lady he'd approached. And Derek would always be there in the background when that punishment was doled out, neither participating nor encouraging, but watching with a self-satisfied air.

Dick had never been able to prove anything and he'd tried to convince himself that he'd read too much into things, but Derek's comment brought the old memories back. "That was a long time ago, Mr. Powers," he said with a laugh. "I'm surprised you even remember me." He frowned. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about again?"

Powers glanced about furtively. "You know," he said, "I'm not sure this is the best place to have a conversation. What time do you finish today? Five?"

Only because of that early morning meeting. "That's right."

"Let's meet at Planet Krypton at half-past, then." He smiled affably. "I think you'll find the ambience to your liking."

Dick fought not to roll his eyes. Planet Krypton was a 'hero-themed' restaurant adorned with replicas of such memorabilia as Hawkman's helmet and the JSA's original charter with FDR's signature. The wait-staff wore ersatz JSA, Justice League, and Teen Titans costumes. The menu featured such "delicacies" as the 'Aquamanwich' (a large fish sandwich held together by a harpoon) and the 'Greens Lantern' salad with avocado dressing.

Dick wasn't sure what Powers' game was. It could be that he thought that costumed heroes actually enjoyed places like this, or Powers might still be trying to annoy him without being blatantly obvious about it, just as he had all those years ago, but something told him that there was only one way to get him to spill the beans. "I'll meet you there," he said, forcing a smile.

* * *

Not that he'd had any intention of wearing his costume to the meeting, but, as Dick took note in passing by the restaurant host, who was wearing a spandex bat-suit that would have made Stan Laurel look like Oliver Hardy, he had one more reason to be glad he hadn't. Far from 'blending in,' the real suit would have attracted far too much attention.

Powers was already seated, but he immediately got up, walked over to Dick, and clapped him on the back. "I was sure you'd arrive first," he said genially. "Good of you to join me."

Once again, Dick suspected that he was being needled, but Powers' tone was just affable enough to make him wonder whether he could be reading too much into things. Barely affable enough.

"I ran into traffic," he said, as a server set water glasses and menus before them. Dick thanked him with a smile, but Powers gave no indication that he'd even noticed the service.

"Ah," Powers replied.

Dick sighed. "Look, Mr. Powers, what's this all about. You said something about Mr. Paxton overstepping boundaries?"

Powers sighed. "He's become obsessed with the idea that Mr. Wayne is planning to retake the company. I suspect that if Les— _Mister_ Paxton—were to spot Mr. Wayne's limousine driving leisurely past Grand and Neville Street, he'd leap to the conclusion that Wayne was," he coughed, "er... _casing_ the PMWE building."

Dick took a sip of water. "Go on."

Powers leaned forward and dropped his voice a notch. "This whole... thing with the restraining order, hiring an impersonator, the gala... Look, I've been in deep with him. I'm not proud of it. In fact," he looked down diffidently, "I'm more than a little bit embarrassed that I've stuck with him longer than anyone on the board of directors. I... usually try to keep a clear head when it comes to the facts, but Paxton can be persuasive when he tries to be. He claimed that Chester had stabbed him in the back and got the other directors to go along with it. I believed him."

Dick frowned. "What changed your mind?"

"He hired a detective."

Interesting, but hardly earth-shaking. "To...?"

"Well, apparently, to keep tabs on Bruce Wayne. From what I was able to glean without seeming too interested, the idea was to infiltrate the manor somehow and uncover some... leverage to use against Mr. Wayne, should he," Powers coughed, "intend to go ahead with this 'master plan' that Mr. Paxton believes he has for returning to the company." He hesitated. "Dick... I really hate to ask and it's not my business... but has..." he looked away. "This is awkward."

Dick was frowning now, water glass forgotten. "What is?"

"I may have misunderstood, but perhaps not. I'm sorry. I know he's been like your father..."

"He's _been_ my father since I was nine years old," Dick said evenly. "What?"

"The last time I saw Mr. Paxton, I was visiting him at his home a few days ago. We were in his study and he got a call. He'd told me that he was hiring the detective prior, and in fact, when he checked the Caller ID, he apologized and told me that he really needed to take it because it was that detective and it could be important. Now, I only heard one side of the conversation, but Mr. Paxton asked whether he'd found any evidence of children."

Dick went cold. "Children," he repeated.

"Mr. Paxton said that it could be useful information and to follow up. Then he ended the call and we continued our conversation as though there'd been no interruption." He took a deep breath. " _Does_ Mr. Wayne have any other living children besides you?"

Dick wanted nothing more than to bolt out of there, but he reminded himself that doing so would reveal far too much to a man he wasn't sure he could trust. "You know Bruce's reputation," he said with a pained expression. "He's never mentioned any others, but that doesn't mean they don't exist." He extended his hand across the table and Powers took it. "Thanks for the heads-up. I'll... see what I can find out."

"Dick," Powers called softly, "if he does, if they're in danger, Paxton still thinks I'm firmly in his camp. I might be able to misdirect him."

"That's..." Dick gave him a relieved smile. "Thank you, Mr. Powers. I'll remember that."

As soon as he had turned his back on Derek Powers, Dick's smile dropped away.

* * *

It wasn't until the academy day was over that Bruce was finally able to retrieve his cell phone from his locker and check his messages for the first time since lunch. He didn't like locking up his cell—particularly with Selina in hiding and unable to reach easily—but the way things were going at the moment, he thought that it was unwise to risk forgetting to set the phone to vibrate and having it go off in class. The instructors would be only too eager to hit the class with more laps or push-ups for such an infraction and, no matter how much Bruce told himself that he didn't care about being unpopular, he also didn't care to be the catalyst for further group punishments. For now, it was best to keep his phone locked up where it could not cause a disturbance. Besides, if Selina was in real trouble, she'd know to contact Oracle ahead of him during the day.

His eyebrows shot up. Jim almost never texted him. He preferred voice or face-to-face contact. The message was terse: Call me ASAP. Trouble.

His eyebrows drew together in a frown as he punched in Jim's phone number from memory. "I just got your text," he said when Jim answered. "What's wrong?"

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end. "I knew you'd panic as soon as I hit send. Sorry about that. It's not as serious as you think, but I'd rather tell you to your face. Stop off at my place before you put your car in the garage?"

A myriad of worries and speculations raced through his mind, but he knew that Jim wasn't going to divulge anything now. "I'm on my way."

* * *

"So she should still be locked in Selina's room right now," Jim finished. "I would have waited around, but if she were to escape," he made a face, "well, I didn't exactly try to frisk her and I let my gun permit expire after I retired." He chuckled. "I think the last time I drew a weapon was when I shot off your cowl ear when you thought Joker had murdered Dr. Elliott." His lips twitched. "Besides," he continued, "knowing how you feel about firearms in general, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable carrying one into your home, even if I still owned it."

Bruce smiled faintly. "I appreciate your concern. Let's go talk to our... guest."

* * *

Selina's room was empty. A broken window and a depression of snapped twigs in the hedge below told the two men as much of the story as they needed to know.

Bruce raised an eyebrow as he turned to Jim. "That wasn't a soft landing," he remarked. "It looks as though she wrapped her hand in fabric, probably a piece of her uniform," his voice was thoughtful as he pointed to the black threads caught on a pointed shard of glass that was still attached to the window frame. "I'll need to come back up here with the proper tools to confirm that," he added briskly. Did you get a good look at her? Could you identify her again if you needed to?"

Jim considered. "Not really," he admitted sourly. "Height and build, yes, but her back was to me and she had her hair tucked under a scarf. You understand I didn't want to approach her or let her realize she'd been caught."

Bruce nodded. "Anything you can recall will still be more than we have to go on. I doubt she would have given her real name to the domestic service." He pointed below. "There's a ledge about five feet below the window sill. From there, it would be a sheer drop of about nine feet to the lawn, but it's only four from the ledge to the bushes. Now, whether she jumped from the window sill, or tried to climb down and slipped, or misjudged the ability of the hedge to take her weight, stepped onto the top, and crashed, she landed on barberry." He winced. "The thorns are painful under any circumstance, but I don't envy her _falling_ into them."

Jim sucked in his breath. "She couldn't have been too badly hurt if she got away, though I'd bet she feels differently. That is one heck of a security system."

"It became necessary," Bruce said.

"After Bane?" Jim asked.

"No. After Dick started sneaking out on patrol on school nights."

"Ah." Jim took a deep breath. "I know what you're going to say, but as a retired police officer, I think I should point out that involving the GCPD in this might be a good thing. Proof you're following normal procedures instead of taking the law into your own hands, and all that."

Bruce shook his head. "That... has its drawbacks as well." He turned away from the window. "The evidence kit's in the cave," he said tersely, striding for the door.

"Drawbacks?" Jim frowned. "Care to share?" He didn't expect Bruce to take him up on the offer, so he was pleasantly surprised when Bruce stopped with his hand on the knob.

"I... attempted to resolve a situation through permitted channels. There's been fallout."

Jim flipped his eyeglasses up for an instant, then let them return to the bridge of his nose. "Do tell?"

* * *

By the time that Bruce had finished talking, they were sitting in the kitchen. Jim had given up on drinking his coffee. He probably would have choked on it a dozen times otherwise. "The IPA," he repeated disbelievingly. "And you thought that this was a good idea, why? How?"

Bruce raised both eyebrows. "MacInnes told me that if I had a concern, I was free to address it to that office."

"Of course he did!" Jim exploded. "That didn't mean he expected you to go on and do it!" He took a deep breath. "When a school teacher says something like 'If you think you can teach this class better than me, why don't you come up to the front of the room and try it?' or 'You two must be having a _fascinating_ conversation. Why not share it with the rest of us?' those are NOT invitations. They are strong suggestions to shut up and sit down!" He gripped the edge of the table as though it was his temper struggling to break loose. "You called down the oversight agency on the investigators' heads for a situation that was already being handled!"

"Or possibly mishandled."

"You don't know that!"

"If they're conducting the investigation properly, it shouldn't be a problem."

Jim fixed him with a steely stare. "Do you ever listen to yourself? Or are you going to tell me why you only ever let _me_ come with you to check out a crime scene and that rarely? I was after you for months to let the MCU shadow you."

Bruce made an irritated gesture. "I hate having someone looking over my..." He flushed.

Jim smiled grimly. He held up his thumb and index finger less than a half-inch apart. "You would have come about _this_ close to fitting right in." He sighed. "Tell me you honestly thought this was going to go well."

Bruce shook his head. "I didn't. But I didn't expect it to go this... badly."

"Your firearms instructor," Jim nodded. "Given the... issues you've been dealing with, he was probably the last person you needed to tick off."

Bruce nodded back glumly. "I'm open to suggestions."

Jim sighed. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "once you've called down the wrath of the IPA, I hope you don't think inviting a former police commissioner to mediate the situation is going to help. It'll work about as well as having a parent complain to the principal that Little Junior is getting bullied. No matter how well-meaning the parent is, once the bully finds out what's happened, the kid's situation only gets worse. You _are_ following me, right, Little Junior?"

Bruce's lips were pressed tightly together as he nodded again.

"Fine." Jim took a deep breath. "You want my suggestion? Keep your head down from this point on. Do whatever you have to do to keep this from getting to you, so long as it's not forbidden by Academy policy. And I would read that policy manual over a few times, if I were you. Don't just memorize. Internalize. This might blow over. It might not. Don't kid yourself that it will ever be fully forgotten; this is the kind of thing that is going to come up down the line, time and again." He gave Bruce a sad smile. "About the only positive I can see is that folks are _finally_ going to forget about the mob war deaths. Probably."

Bruce closed his eyes. "They _should_ remember those," he whispered. "I do."

Jim raised his mug and took a long sip of cold coffee. "As far as I'm concerned, you're the only one who needs to. As for the firearms instruction," he sighed, "let's go downstairs and I'll see if I can help you out. I may not have used a gun in about three years, but I think I still remember enough to be of some use."

Bruce exhaled. "I made a mess of it," he said miserably.

"You did. The question now is whether you're going to accept the consequences and move on, or stay on the pity pot." He tilted his head. "Well?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "If you know me at all," he said as he pushed his chair away from the table, "you know that isn't a question. Do you want to head downstairs now?"

Jim reached for his cane. "I don't mind. You don't want supper first?"

"Later."

"Lead the way."

* * *

Cass waited on Barbara's sofa and tried to stop her hands from sweating. Her dress pants were black, so it wouldn't be that obvious if she wiped them on it, but Barbara had still frowned when she'd tried.

"You look great," Barbara said sincerely. "I love that top."

'That top' was a black silk scoop-neck worn under an open petal-pink jacket. The jacket stopped just above her waist, while the shirt hugged her hips. She'd cinched it in with a braided belt of pink, silver, and black.

"Make-up isn't smeared?" Cass asked.

"It's fine."

Cass absently reached for the ceramic bowl on the coffee table and helped herself to a handful of roasted nuts. "Time?" she asked.

"About three minutes since the last time you asked me," Barbara replied, rolling her eyes. "Relax."

Doug was picking her up here because there was no way that she could have asked him to meet her where she lived. Not when she lived in an underground bunker that didn't appear on any municipal maps, in any case. When she'd broached the subject to Barbara, it hadn't been hard for her to come up with a solution.

" _Just tell him that you're spending the afternoon here to study for your GED," Barbara suggested. "He can meet you here when you're done."_

_Cass frowned. "Lie?"_

" _Not necessarily," Barbara grinned. "You can study here if you want to."_

" _But after? He'll want to bring me... home. Then what?"_

_Barbara thought for a moment. "Here's what we'll do. You'll come here first to study. When Doug shows up to take you to the concert, make sure that you leave at least one textbook behind. After the concert, tell him that you need to come back here to get it. At that point, I'll find an excuse for you to stay here overnight."_

" _Okay..." she said dubiously. It still sounded like Barbara was going to lie. As much as she appreciated that lying—or at least omission—was sometimes necessary for security, Cass hated the idea. Plus, she couldn't lie convincingly to save her life. When those around her prevaricated, their body language betrayed them. Cass could never quite believe that her own untruths could fool anyone and so, they never did. Having Barbara lie for her made her uncomfortable, but she couldn't see a better solution._

"My hair," she lifted a hand to her bangs automatically. "Not mess?"

Barbara sighed. Then she reached into her purse and took out a small hand mirror. "Maybe this will convince you," she grinned.

As Cass reached for it, the intercom buzzed.

Barbara motioned to Cass to follow her to the control panel on the wall. "Is that him?" she asked, gesturing toward the vid-screen.

"Yes."

"Ready?" Barbara asked.

"Um..."

"Relax. You'll be fine." Then she pressed the reply button and Cass hastily finished her handful of nuts. "Don't wipe your hand on your pants."

Cass's hand froze a scant half-inch from her thigh. "Sorry."

* * *

It was raining heavily when they drove back some hours later. A loud thunderclap startled them as they got out of the car. In the time it took for them to cover the few yards from Doug's parking spot to the front door of Barbara's building, Cass and Doug were both dripping wet. They looked at each other and began to laugh, sobering before Doug hit the intercom. Barbara sounded tense as she buzzed them up.

"Your book's on the coffee table," Barbara said, gesturing jerkily toward it.

Cass frowned. "Barbara? Something... wrong?"

Barbara sighed. "Not really. Dick's working late tonight and I hate myself for saying this, but thunderstorms make me edgy." She looked hopefully at Cass. "Do you have to get up early tomorrow? Can you stick around for a bit until Dick comes home? We can drive you back then."

Cass fought not to grin. So, that was what Barbara had dreamed up. She turned to Doug. "Okay?"

"Sure," Doug nodded. "It's fine with me. I... hope you had a good time tonight?"

"Yes." She let the smile escape. "You?"

"Very much."

He wasn't just being polite. He meant it. And so did she. "Then... maybe again?"

Doug smiled back. "I'd like to. Well..." he glanced at Barbara, who was hovering in the background. "Well, I'll see you at Saint Swithins tomorrow, then?"

"Yes." She took a step closer. "Good night."

For a moment, she thought that he might kiss her and wondered whether she wanted him to. Then he shot another quick glance over her shoulder in Barbara's direction, smiled once more, and turned on his heel. With one foot in the hallway, he turned back. "Tomorrow, then. Good night, Cass."

Then he was gone.

Barbara smiled. "Sorry if I cramped your style, there," she said.

"What?"

"I could have gone into the back and given you two a little privacy."

"Oh." Cass felt her cheeks grow warm. "No. It's... okay."

"How was the concert?"

Cass beamed. "Wonderful."

* * *

It was after two when Dick came through the window of Barbara's office. Barbara looked up and smiled. "Every time I see that cape outline, I still think of Bela Lugosi's Dracula," she admitted.

"Just as long as it isn't Robert Pattison's Edward Cullen," Dick replied with a shudder.

Barbara winced. "Don't put that image in my mind, Short-pants," she groaned. "I just ate." She tilted her face upward as Dick bent down to kiss her. "Rough night?"

"Not until the signal went up." Dick made a face. "Did you hear about the..." he paused, considering his words, "...the... latest stunt Bruce pulled?" He clapped a hand over his eyes. "Damn. I sound like I've just come back from a parent-teacher conference and gotten an earful. It felt like it, too."

Barbara smiled sympathetically. "Daddy told me about the IPA." She sighed. "Bruce has said he isn't at the Academy to be liked. Maybe this was as good a way as any to remind us?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Or... try this. Up until now, everyone has been saying that he's not a team player. He doesn't go through channels. He has to do things his way. Well... Jandt was on his team. Bruce didn't want to throw him under a bus, so he did everything he could do within the law, within the approved channels, to go to bat for him. And no, he didn't do things _their_ way, but he didn't try to take over the investigation or obstruct justice or anything else that they've accused him of in the past. I'm not saying he was right, and I'm not saying that they don't have a right to be ticked off... but if I was trying to be thorough, and I took my responsibilities seriously, and I really didn't give a damn who I annoyed in the process, I might actually try something like this."

Dick mulled that over. "Makes sense. I still had to assure Sawyer that Bruce never discussed what he was planning with me and that I would have tried to talk him out of it if I'd known."

"Think he'd have listened?"

"No. Well," Dick paused, "not in the old days, but now... maybe. Probably not, but there was a chance. Anyway..."

He took a deep breath. "I need you to do some checking up for me."

"On who?" Barbara asked, all-business once more.

"Derek Powers. He's one of Paxton's protégés, works in accounting, recently made AVP. He may be changing sides or he may be trying to make us think he is. I want to know which." His expression hardened. "He told me Paxton's trying to find out if Bruce has any kids. After what happened to Selina... if Paxton engineered that... or if it's Powers and he's trying to finish the job..." He forced himself to smile. "You know, this is the point where you're supposed to remind me that Bruce is the paranoid one and I'm reading too much into things."

Barbara gazed up at him levelly. "No," she said, her voice firm. "This is the point where I remind you that it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you. I'm on this. You should rest."

"Does Cass need a lift home?"

Barbara smiled. "No, she swung out of here about an hour ago. Floating on air..."

* * *

Sleep came all too infrequently to Lester Paxton these nights. The calls he had learned to dread came without warning and at all hours. He feared them, but he feared the possibility of missing one all the more. For if he failed to take those calls, he had no doubt that False Face would make good on his threats, and the evidence of his activities—evidence he had not yet admitted existed to his attorneys—would be made public in the most incendiary way possible.

The call came at 1:30 in the morning. He picked up on the first ring.

"Lester Paxton."

"Les, you old dog!"

So he was playing 'Brucie' tonight. "What do you want?"

"Well, first, my employer wanted to thank you for hiring that detective."

Paxton blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

There was a jovial laugh. "Oh, come now. The inquiries you've been making into Wayne's personal life? The attempt on his girlfriend?"

"Again," Paxton said testily, "I have no idea what you mean. I've had no contact with Wayne in months. Frankly, I have no wish to lay eyes on the man again."

The voice on the other end of the line turned dry. "You talk a good game, Lester. Let's hope it's good enough to convince the police. And the Bats." The call ended.

Paxton stared at his handheld for a long moment before he returned it to the cradle.

* * *

In a safe-house some miles away, a disgraced surgeon looked at his companion. "I'm glad you've found a way to pass the time," Hush remarked. "Are you sure you want to tip him off that he's being set up, though?"

False Face shrugged. "Can't have the man growing too complacent. He's going to trial for a non-violent crime and he has the finances and legal staff to drag the matter out for years. He might be well into his 80s by the time the verdict is handed down. If he has to live with this thing dangling over his head, I'd like to know that he's loathing every minute of it." He smiled. "I'm not a stupid man, Thomas. I'm hardly about to tell him that it's his protégé playing him for a fool. I think I can live without spoiling that particular surprise. Meanwhile... it's fun to watch him squirm."

"Just don't let it divert you too much from the other objective," Hush gave in. "Speaking of which... What _is_ going on with Intergang?"

"It's early days, yet," False Face replied, "but it looks as though Mannheim might be getting ready for something big. The ringleader seems to be a kid named Fixx. He's looking to make a name for himself. He's the sort that might well end up running things one day—if he doesn't overextend himself and get taken out of the game first."

"Ah. One of those." Hush sounded bored. "Your cover is secure?"

"Thus far."

"Keep me informed. I may need them at some point and I'd like to have the key players and their motivations in mind, should that hour arise."

"Of course," False Face smiled. He gestured toward the TV. "Are you watching that or might I see what else is on?"

* * *

Saturday morning dawned cool and crisp, a reminder that it was only April and summer hadn't yet arrived. Dick sighed when he listened to the morning forecast. "I was hoping I could pack away my coat until next fall," he admitted. Then he slapped a hand to his head. "It's in the car. I haven't needed it for the last few days and I keep forgetting to bring it up."

"Well," Barbara smiled, "we're driving over to Daddy's for brunch anyway. Just remember to bring it upstairs when we get back.

* * *

They stopped off at the grocery store on the way home. When they made their way upstairs, Dick carried a large paper bag in each arm and Barbara held one on her lap. A reusable canvas shopping bag hung from one arm of her wheelchair.

"I can't believe I let the cupboards get so bare," Barbara admitted.

"Hey," Dick maneuvered his key out of his pocket and into the lock, "it's not like you're the only one living here. I should have noticed before this."

"This is true," Barbara deadpanned.

"Hey!" He pushed the door open. "Can you get the burglar alarm and I'll just put these on the tay—"

_WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE! WARNING UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE!_

Three miniature flying robots closed in on Dick's position, pincer-like claws extended menacingly. Startled, he dropped the bags and whipped his escrima out of the pockets he'd sewn into the lining of his coat sleeves. "What the hell...?" he demanded as one of the bags split and a dozen oranges went rolling in all directions.

Barbara's eyes opened wide. "Grote! Robinson! Cinnamon!" she snapped. At her code-phrase, the robots retracted their claws and retreated. "Dick," Barbara said calmly, "please, take your coat off and check it carefully."

He didn't need to be told twice. His coat and the groceries were the only things that they were bringing into the apartment that they hadn't had with them when they'd left earlier. Either someone had bugged their canned peaches or...

He sucked in his breath, as his fingers found something under his sheepskin collar that didn't belong there. _Here's what triggered the defenses_ , he signed, his expression grim. Aloud, he said, "Seems clean to me. Are you sure your systems are working properly?"

"I guess it could be a false alarm," Barbara said dubiously. "I'll run a diagnostic." _On this_ , she signed back. _Maybe there's a way to track who tagged you._

Dick shook his head. _I've got a pretty good idea, actually. The last time I had this coat upstairs was on Wednesday morning. That afternoon, I met with Derek Powers after work._ He winced as he remembered that 'friendly' clap on the back. _So. Now we know._


	33. Letting it Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta.
> 
> A/N: I am indebted to the forums at for information on shotgun shooting. Specifically comments made by FiVo3, LA Dep, and Langford PR in the "Tips for shooting shotgun slugs" thread (July 22, 2013).
> 
> "At Least I Tried" written and performed by Cy Coleman on the _Barnum_ Original Broadway Cast Recording album (Sony, 1980, 2002).

_I'll take the odds_

_Then let it ride_

_Just let me choose_

_Play out my hand_

_I'd rather lose_

_Than have to stand along the side_

_And though there might be hell to pay_

_I'll take whatever comes my way_

_And say with pride_

_At least I tried_

—Cy Coleman, "At Least I Tried"

****

**Chapter 32—Letting It Ride**

"Okay," Barbara said, closing the drawer and turning her key in the lock with a satisfied smile. "If Powers is still listening, I hope he gets a kick out of hearing us discuss drywall options for the bathroom ceiling, because that's the loop tape. Well, that and floor tiling choices."

Dick shook his head in mock exasperation. "I'm not even going to ask how you have the two of us having a discussion like that on file," he said, "although I'm curious."

"Well," Barbara replied, as she wheeled over to her computer console, "it would never pass voice-recognition software, but computerized manips combined with Kryptonian AI technology can do amazing things. It'll keep him entertained for about two hours."

"And then?"

"Our virtual selves drive to a karaoke bar and stay there until 4 am. Um... I hope you're not too upset that your virtual self sings off-key? Badly?"

Dick laughed out loud. "How about yours?"

"Composite of five Tony award-winning Broadway musical actresses. I want Powers to realize just how lucky you are to have me. Of course, the _other_ patrons of the karaoke bar are much... _much_ worse. And at least three of them will be singing 'And I Am Telling You... I'm Not Going'. The Rosabel 'attitude' remix version," she beamed.

Dick smiled, but confusion clouded his eyes. "Sorry. I know that song's from _Dreamgirls_ and from what I remember, it takes a strong singer to carry it off, but what's so special about that remix?"

"Well, nothing, really," Barbara admitted. "Except that it runs ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds versus anywhere from four minutes eight to five minutes six, depending on whether you're going for the Jennifer Holliday or the Jennifer Hudson version." Her smile grew vicious. "I've had time to think about this. A lot."

"Three people who can't sing," Dick said slowly, "but who will nevertheless persist in doing so for more than ten minutes each... Is that even allowed under the Geneva Convention?"

"Considering that the Geneva Convention only applies during wartime, it's not really relevant here," Barbara replied. "However, while Powers is listening to Lina Lamont and Urkel belt out 'Hey, I Got You, Babe,' we get to discuss what Powers was hoping to gain from sticking a bug on you."

Dick nodded. "We know he told me he wants to break with Paxton. That Paxton has hired a detective to try to get something on Bruce, and that your father surprised a spy in Selina's room earlier this week. Now, Powers asked me straight out if Bruce has any other kids besides me. I didn't give him anything—"

"—Because you're not stupid."

"Thanks. Also because there was that one time back in Bludhaven when I was a little too open with an ADA I thought I could trust. It cost me. Just because I'd like to believe the best of people doesn't mean I can always afford to. Especially not when it comes to someone like Powers, who seems to shift sides whenever it's expedient."

"Or someone who first alerted the PMWE Board of Directors to our creative accounting trick to quietly keep Bruce as the majority stockholder," Barbara added.

"What?" Dick was peering over her shoulder in two quick strides. "Why, that slimy, conniving..."

"Don't be diplomatic, FBW. Tell me what you really think of him."

Dick sucked in his breath. "I think I have to call the Gotham Zoo and tell them one of their vipers has escaped. Meanwhile," he said, after Barbara finished giggling, "let's figure out what sort of line I can feed him and see who the next link in the food chain is. I can't wait to see who he tells..."

* * *

Solange Prentiss checked her reflection in her compact mirror again. Reassured that her scratches were nearly invisible, she settled back in her chair and waited to be summoned. She had expected to be seen immediately and was rather surprised to be left in the waiting room for over thirty minutes. Still, her employer was a busy man.

"Ms. Prentiss?"

Solange looked up.

"You may go inside."

She'd been in the office once before, nearly six weeks ago. As she had previously, she found the atmosphere oppressive. It was dark and windowless, with paneled walls and thick carpeting. Much of it was in shadow. Her employer sat behind an imposing walnut desk, illuminated by a single bulb. She started for the seat opposite the desk, but a command checked her.

"Remain standing."

Solange obeyed, noticing that she was standing on a plastic carpet runner that had not been here last time. It was perhaps eight feet long and half as wide.

"Come closer... closer... stop."

Her toes were nearly at the edge of the runner.

"Report."

It didn't take her long to relay her failure. She'd been searching Selina Kyle's room for some sort of evidence that would connect her daughter to Mr. Wayne. She'd been caught and had barely managed to escape without serious injury."

"...And without the very data that we hired you to procure."

Solange wasn't sure whether she was more annoyed at having let her employer down or at being forced to take orders from a child nearly a decade her junior. She swallowed her ire. The man was a rising star in the organization and not one she wanted for an enemy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fixx. The data wasn't in her room."

"So you failed."

"It wasn't my fault!" she snapped. "The house was supposed to be empty. I had no idea that—"

"You failed."

He was right, damn him. "I failed. This time. But I will do better in the future."

"Ms. Prentice," Mr. Fixx said softly, "You have no future."

He gestured toward the shadows behind his desk and a man she hadn't noticed drew closer. He was holding a gun pointing directly at her.

Solange swallowed hard. "You can't be serious," she managed. "Surely there's some way that I can make amend—"

The gun fired with a muffled 'thwipp' and she fell backwards onto the carpet runner with a red spot on her forehead. The spot spread quickly, losing its neat round shape as the blood ran freely toward the runner.

Fixx sighed. "Try to keep that from spilling onto the carpet," he directed the gunman. "I'll call someone to help you dispose of her."

He smiled. A silenced gun, a soundproofed room, and now, no suspect left for the Bats to interrogate. It was annoying that his spy had been unsuccessful, but a relief to know that she could no longer implicate him or his organization in any wrongdoing.

"Any further orders, Mr. Fixx?" the gunman asked respectfully.

Fixx considered. "Procure me a weapon like yours," he said finally. "I believe I'd like to learn to use it."

* * *

"Thanks again, Wayne," Ortega said, as Bruce walked her to her car. "It's a pity the academy top brass isn't likely to allow a field trip out here. They could learn a thing or two from your driving simulator."

Bruce allowed himself a brief smile. "Wayne Industries actually provided the academy's current version," he said. "Unfortunately, that was over a decade ago. There've been several upgrades."

Ortega frowned. "So then..."

"Budget," Bruce said tersely. "The old simulator still works; the graphics and sound effects aren't quite as good, but the skills it's set up to teach are solid." He sighed. "If I were approached by the administration, yes, I could arrange to provide them the latest version, but since I'm currently attending the Academy, I suspect that someone might raise an ethical question."

"You mean, they might think you're trying to bribe a decent grade out of them."

Bruce made a face. "Pretty much. And even though I wouldn't resort to such a tactic, my donating a new simulator at this juncture might invite inadvertent bias in my favor." He blew out an irritated breath. "Whether I passed or failed the program, there would be speculation about whether it was on my own merits, or whether they deliberately went easier on me because of the gift or cracked down harder to avoid accusations of bias. The current simulator isn't a liability in any sense of the word. The Academy can wait until after graduation for an upgrade." He smiled. "They'll get it. Regardless of whether I pass."

Ortega nodded. "I wish I didn't see your point. Or that I could disagree with it."

"I'll see you in class tomorrow?"

"Sure." She smiled. "I wouldn't mind another crack at your simulator next weekend, mind you."

"That can be arranged."

"Will Selina be back by then, do you think?"

A shadow fell across Bruce's face. "I'm not sure, but it's possible."

As Ortega drove off, Bruce shook his head sadly. "It's just not very probable at the moment..."

* * *

Cass chewed her bottom lip as she looked at the five essay topics on her screen. Usually, she could find one that flowed for her. Today, though, they all seemed too hard or too silly. Sighing, she reread them slowly, hoping that she'd misunderstood and one of them was actually interesting. Yes, Jeremiah had told her that she could write on a topic of her own choosing, but she didn't feel right about it. As silly as most of these topics seemed, she didn't know if her ideas would be any better. Or safer. She could write about fighting. She could even try to make something up like "Imagine what it would be like to fight crime in a mask and costume." But might Jeremiah suspect? He'd met Batgirl before and Cass suspected that something she'd said to him out of costume had triggered a memory of that encounter.

Besides, since she actually _did_ fight crime in a mask and costume, she wouldn't just be imagining. She would know. And maybe she would know it too well for anyone to think that she wasn't actually one of the... capes. She scowled. Life had been so much easier when she hadn't cared about having a secret identity. Easier... not... better. If she had just stayed Batgirl, she wouldn't be volunteering at Saint Swithin's. She wouldn't have discovered how much she liked working with the physiotherapy equipment or considered a career that would allow her to use it.

She wouldn't have met Doug.

As Batgirl, she might have fought to save Dr. Arkham's life. As Cass, she had fought to make his life easier while in the hospital. Maybe getting the doctors and nurses to address him by his title had been a little thing, but it had been as much a battle as her usual forays into the night.

Her eyebrows lifted and she tore her gaze from the computer screen and looked at the table beside her, where Dr. Arkham was engrossed in his newspaper.

He looked up. "Have you a question, Cass?"

She blinked. "No. Just... thinking."

"A good habit to maintain," he rejoined sharply, his body language proving once again that tone of voice and true feeling could often find themselves at opposite ends of the spectrum. "Carry on."

She flashed him a quick smile and went back to her screen. Maybe she did have an original topic, after all. Carefully, she began to type.

 **Is a good life an easy one or do you**...

She frowned. Something was wrong with the wording. She looked at the sample questions again. Most of them started with a statement, a "premise," Dr. Arkham had called it, followed by a discussion question, with the essay intended as the answer. She wasn't sure if she ought to copy that style, but she could try.

**When things go well, people say that life is good. Is it good for life to be easy? Or is challenge better?**

She sighed. She wasn't sure if she knew the right answer, but she felt as though she was finally asking the right question.

* * *

Maury Chiarello looked over the file again. He had always been meticulous, but with the IPA breathing down his neck, he was taking greater pains than usual and he knew that the other panel members were doing the same.

"We've taken enough time with this," he stated. "Jandt was released from the hospital over a week ago and his brother has been ringing daily to find out what's been going on. The IPA," his sour expression mirrored those of the others seated around the table, "is breathing down our necks on this one, too. We're all aware of the facts. There are some mitigating circumstances, which we've had ample time to review and consider. I'm ready to call for the vote. Any objections?"

There were none.

"Very well. Again, our options are to expel Cadet Alvin Jandt from the Gotham City Police Academy with no possibility of reapplying, to suspend him for the current session but permit him to reapply at a later date, or to reinstate him in the current session with full credit, on the understanding that he makes up the work he's missed in time for graduation." He surveyed the room, his face expressionless.

"Let's vote."

* * *

The next evening, Bruce and Jim headed down to the cave, where Bruce stoically removed a shotgun from the trophy room, carried it to the range, and loaded it. It was easier if he didn't think too hard about what he was doing.

Jim watched, his face betraying nothing, as Bruce took up his position before the target and fired a volley of shells. Even from where he was standing, Jim could see that the results were unsatisfactory. After a moment, Bruce trotted to the end of the range to retrieve the bulls-eye.

"I think a lot of it is psychological," Bruce admitted with a sigh. "And this is one mental block I'm... not particularly eager to break."

Jim nodded. "Just because you're expecting something, doesn't necessarily make it easier to deal with. Sometimes..."

"It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy," Bruce interrupted with a slight eyeroll. "I know," he snarled, mentally cursing the twist of fate that had essentially made qualifying with a firearm the prerequisite to donning the persona of a vigilante for whom guns were anathema. "I still need to master this, psychological hang-up or not."

Jim smiled. "Did Farnham talk to you about cheek weld?"

"Yes," Bruce snapped. "I've been working on that, but the only result seems to be a stinging sensation in the spot that presses against the stock. I'm not whining..." he continued, holding up a hand to nip Jim's rejoinder in the bud, "...but I wouldn't mind the discomfort if I had better progress to show for it."

"I can understand that," Jim rumbled. "For what it's worth, some people actually shoot better with a more relaxed stance. Try loosening your shoulders a bit. Your cheek needs to be against the shotgun stock, yes, but despite the term, it's not like you need to fuse it there."

"Sergeant Farnham might disagree," Bruce replied.

"From what you're telling me, Sergeant Farnham isn't giving you much in the way of direction these days. Suppose you stop harping on the last thing he told you and consider that, if he were doing his job, he'd recognize that, in your case, it wasn't working. And try this." He drew one step closer to Bruce. "At the end of the day, you aren't going to be graded on how you hold the weapon. You're going to be graded on whether you can achieve 80 percent accuracy on the shotgun qualification course. Everything else is gravy. In other words, your stance is supposed to help you aim properly. Do what works."

Bruce let the words sink in. Then he set the gun down and did a number of stretches geared toward loosening his neck and shoulders. He picked up the gun again and tried to follow Jim's instructions.

"Okay, a bit more of a cheek weld than that," Jim grumbled. "Either keep both your eyes open or aim with your right eye." He frowned, considering. "In the event that you decide to try aiming with the gun on your left shoulder, it would be your left eye, too."

Bruce nodded. "Got it." He pressed down forcefully on the trigger.

"Don't smash it," Jim warned. "And..." he frowned. "Hold your fire a second. I want to check something." He walked out toward the target at the end of the range. When he rejoined Bruce, he was smiling. "You've been focusing on the target," he said. "Don't. Work with the front sight."

Bruce let out a long sigh. "Got it." He brought the gun up and fired again, trying not to wince when the gun stock smashed into his shoulder.

Jim pounced. "Own the recoil, don't let it own you!"

"I know!" Bruce snapped. "I just..."

"Yeah. There's a lot to learn and you hate guns." Jim rolled his eyes. "I get that. Really. But like everything else you've put yourself through over the years, you need to work at this. Meditate. Try... I don't know, self-hypnosis, whatever. And when you're done, I promise not to cringe if you pound the ever-loving crap out of a Muay Thai kickboxing bag. Meanwhile, keep at this." He gave Bruce a savage smile. "Or I'll offer the kids a chance to observe your performance and invite comments. I think they might see it as a way to pay you back for all the hell you put them through during their vigilante boot camp. Probably jump at the opportunity."

Bruce's lips twitched. "They would," he admitted, adding "Ungrateful brats," under his breath. He shouldered the gun again and pretended that he hadn't seen Jim smirk.

The former commissioner watched. "That's a bit better."

Bruce set his jaw and squeezed off a shot. He exhaled slowly. "Thanks," he said. "For the pep talk."

"That wasn't a pep talk," Jim retorted. "It was a good old-fashioned kick in the rear."

Bruce's lips twitched again. "Were Plastic Man or Green Arrow here, I believe they would interject something along the lines of 'tomayto, tomahto'."

Jim laughed at that.

* * *

Bruce had just put the shotgun away and was heading back upstairs when the monitor beeped and Barbara appeared on the screen. "Hey, Boss-man. I hope I'm not interrupting, but you did say you wanted to be informed of any new developments _vis-à-vis_ Alvin Jandt."

Jim was already on his way up the stairs, but he stopped and turned around. "Excuse me?"

Bruce didn't flinch at his tone. "I've been curious as to how the inquiry has been proceeding and, given my current position in the chain of command," his expression soured, "I've had no reason to believe that I'd be informed via conventional channels." He drew closer to the monitor. "What have you found out?"

"If you interfere..." Jim warned angrily.

Barbara hesitated.

"Barbara?" Bruce prompted.

Instead of responding, the face on the screen looked guiltily past Bruce's shoulder with an unvoiced question.

Jim sighed. "Fine. We both know that as soon as I'm back at my place, he's going to get you back on and glower at you until you give in. Go ahead."

Bruce didn't deny Jim's words. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and met Barbara's eyes squarely. "Report."

"They went into a lot of detail," Barbara began. "I've read some reports like this over the years and they're generally thorough, but this one was even more so... probably because of the IPA breathing down their necks. Anyway, the thing that comes across clearly is that Jandt wasn't a model cadet who had a momentary lapse of judgment, took a few too many drinks and then got hatted. They looked at his coursework, his overall attitude, his..."

"Barbara..." Bruce interrupted. "The decision?"

Barbara stopped, took a deep breath, and continued in a quieter tone. "Permanent expulsion with no chance of readmission. The IPA might choose to overturn that, I guess, but based on what I've read, it doesn't look likely."

Bruce nodded curtly. "So," he said, "that's that."

"'Fraid so." Her eyes flickered toward something that Bruce couldn't see on the vid-screen. "I have to go," she smiled apologetically. "Call me later." The monitor winked out.

"Not what you wanted to hear," Jim rumbled from behind him.

"No," Bruce sighed, "although it is what I think I was expecting to hear." He shook his head. "I suppose I'll never know, but I hope that my push for a thorough investigation didn't inadvertently lead to a harsher judgment."

Jim placed a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth," he said, "it sounds like the guy had issues he should have worked on before he applied to the academy, and it sounds like there may have been some political strings pulled to get him inside. If that's the case, then personally, I think that kicking him out now was a sound move. Nobody wants an undependable partner in the field. Now, it's possible that what happened to him might have scared him into shaping up, had the verdict gone differently. It's also possible that he would have assumed that his brother stepped up to save the day again and learned nothing. I guess that's something else we'll never know."

Bruce nodded.

"Coming upstairs?"

"In a minute."

"Fine."

Bruce waited until Jim was gone, before walking over to a different area of the Cave. The glass display case was empty now; Dick had removed the costume when he'd cleaned out the Cave after Bruce's arrest, but the plate was still intact. _Jason Todd. A good soldier._ Bruce sighed. It would have been so easy to have written off Jason as some punk street-kid who would never amount to anything all those years ago. In his short life, though, the boy had accomplished some real good—mostly because he'd been given a second chance. On the other hand, despite that 'real good', it _had_ been a short life. Bruce knew that he hadn't been wrong to take him in, but Jim's comment about undependable partners in the field had hit home.

Both with Jason and with Jandt, he'd done his best and it hadn't been enough... but it also had never been entirely up to him. Jim would probably tell him to let it go. Of course, that was easier said than done. He stood before the empty case for another few minutes before he headed back upstairs.

* * *

"So you hadn't thought of a parallel until that moment," Alex reflected.

Bruce shook his head. "No. And I'll be the first to agree that there are vast differences between an angry impetuous youth who, nevertheless, wanted to do the right thing, even if he and I had very different ideas about what that 'right thing' was... and an adult who..."

Bruce's voice trailed off. When he didn't continue after several moments, Alex frowned. "Who...?"

"Honestly?" Bruce shook his head again. "I don't know. I barely knew the man and what I see didn't impress me. He was lazy, arrogant, unmotivated, and in short, probably not the greatest asset to the academy."

"And yet, you fought to keep him there. Why?"

Bruce's brow furrowed. "I'm not entirely sure. I suppose a good part of it was that he _did_ remind me of Jason in one respect: it would have been so easy to write him off as hopeless. I... don't usually _do_ easy." He sighed. "And, of course, Jandt was part of my squad and any failure on his part could be seen in part as failure on mine."

"Mmmm," Alex made a notation on his pad. "By your higher-ups, or by you?"

"In this instance?" Bruce's lips twitched. "I'm not completely divorced from reality. However, regardless of how my... higher-ups choose to view it, I can't allow myself to become complacent."

"Complacent?"

"This time," Bruce said slowly, "someone under my command made serious errors and it did not reflect badly upon me. Next time, it could be that someone will make serious errors because I didn't take sufficient precautions, and not recognize my responsibility until it's too late. I can't afford to not hold myself responsible."

"Mmmmmmmm." Alex started to make another notation. He frowned, shook his pen, and pressed it again to the page. After a moment, he moved it to the margin and scribbled furiously. Shaking his head, he replaced it in his desk organizer and took a different one. "So you kept on top of the case, because you saw his behavior as your responsibility, even though it appears that your commanding officer advised you that said responsibility ended when you filed your report."

"Yes."

"Any thoughts on why you couldn't let matters lie?"

"I know what you're getting at," Bruce snapped. "If I felt that I deserved some of the responsibility, then perhaps I subconsciously arranged it so that I would also be hit by some of the fallout."

Alex waited.

Bruce sighed. "It's... possible."

"It is," Alex nodded. "Although, I'd say that your thoughts on trying to help someone whom others would have summarily written off are also very much in keeping with your usual way of looking at things." He smiled. "It's not a bad way to be, even if it is a harder one."

Bruce gave him a guarded smile in return.

* * *

In a small apartment in the working-class neighborhood of Coventry, fifteen men and women sat on folding chairs, their attention focused on the heavyset young man at the front of the room.

"Again," Mr. Fixx was saying, "we don't know that the child is his, but the woman clearly means something to him or he wouldn't have suffered her presence in his home for weeks at a time. And given the number of strays he's picked up over the years, to say nothing of his track record for protecting civilians, it likely makes no difference in his mind whether he has a blood tie or affiliation with them."

Nods and murmurs of agreement greeted his statement.

"The Bats corralled the team we sent to Kyle's last known location before they could penetrate and confirm her presence. They're currently in the GCPD lockup, meditating on their failure. It's almost definite she's moved on from there." Fixx's voice turned businesslike as he picked up his smart-phone. "I'm currently downloading the dossier on Selina Kyle to your phones," he said. "Keep in mind that she has been known to disguise herself in the past and may well do so again, but having a child with her limits her options." He smiled thinly. "The girl seems to be about two years old. A toddler. Toddlers don't bear confinement in safe-houses well. They can be quite loud in their disapproval. I suspect that Kyle may take her outside if she believes it to be safe. Moreover, toddlers are seldom amenable to disguise over the long term. They pull at wigs and smear make-up, both their own and that of others. When they talk, they say whatever comes to mind and don't understand secrecy." His smile widened. "Remember that even if Kyle is using an assumed name, she is likely still calling the girl 'Helena'. Even if she isn't, calling out that name will likely cause the toddler to react, but be careful. If Kyle thinks her cover has been blown, she'll move again."

One of the men cleared his throat. "With respect, Mr. Fixx, there are over eight million people residing in Gotham, to say nothing of the number of people commuting from the suburbs. Without some sort of lead, a search seems pointless."

Fixx's smile dropped like a stone. "Mr..."

"Navarre."

"Mr. Navarre, I don't want excuses. I want you to locate Selina Kyle and her daughter and report back to me when you have a location. You come highly recommended. Is your reputation undeserved?"

Navarre swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Fixx. It is not."

"I didn't think so." Fixx's jaw tightened. "Now get out of my sight. All of you."

Outside in the corridor, Navarre smiled to himself and continued on his way. He waited until he was safely away from the building before whipping out his phone and punching in a number. "False Face here. I don't think you need to be overly concerned about Intergang at the moment. Fixx is trying to gain leverage over Wayne by tracking down one of his old girlfriends. Yes, Kyle." He could practically hear Hush rolling his eyes on the other end. "Yes, it _is_ rather like walking into a powder room with a lighted match and a leaky gasoline can. Yes, I'll continue the surveillance. Fireworks are often a glorious thing to watch up close..."

* * *

After three days indoors, Helena was practically climbing the walls and Selina was tempted to join her.

"Mommy, out'ide!" Helena repeated for what felt like the millionth time.

"We can't," Selina said tiredly. "We have to stay here."

"Mommy, out'ide!"

Selina closed her eyes. "Mommy has a headache, Helena. How about you play quietly?" Not that there was much in the way of toys around here, but she'd found a few things that she thought Helena could handle without supervision. Grip strength balls were one such item. Helena liked rolling them along the exercise mats. For that matter, she enjoyed rolling herself along those mats, too. Yoga meditation cushions and wedges seemed to interest her as much as building blocks would have. But there were still so many things that were not safe for toddlers in this place.

Selina was getting tired of saying 'No!' and she knew Helena was tired of hearing it. They were both restless, stressed, and jumpy. The difference was that Helena had a "go-to" stress relief tactic, and after the million-and-first reiteration of 'We have to stay here.' She rocked back on her heels, closed her eyes, threw back her head and used it.

Selina fought the urge to clap her hands over her ears when the screeching started. Truth be told, at this point, she half-wished that she could join in. "Stupidest thing I ever did was grow up," she muttered, as she scooped up her daughter, hugged her close, and rocked from one foot to the other, making soothing noises.

"Shhh... I know, I know... shhh..."

It took less than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity before Helena's wails subsided and Selina set her down gently on the blanketed stack of mats that was serving as a makeshift bed. Helena protested a bit, but after a couple of folk songs, she sighed and curled up, ready for her nap.

Selina watched tenderly, but as she turned away, she was shaking her head. Things simply could not go on like this for much longer.

* * *

Derek Powers was on his way into a department meeting when he heard running footsteps behind him. "Mr. Powers?"

He turned to see an out-of-breath Dick Grayson approaching. "Dick, please!" he smiled. "I told you it was 'Derek'."

Dick nodded. "Sorry. Derek. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to Bruce. And... I don't know. See," he dropped his voice to an undertone, "over the years, there've been a few women who've..." he didn't have to feign embarrassment. He really didn't like this part of it, but he'd discussed it with Bruce and Barbara and they'd both agreed that if Derek was convinced that there was a child, outright denial would only increase suspicion. Dick still hated it. "...Who've claimed that Bruce was the father of their child. Bruce has told me that he remembers four cases. In two of them, it's not... possible, if you take my meaning. Things never got to that point. In the other two... it's not probable. But Bruce didn't want to get the courts and the media involved, so even with the ones that he knew couldn't be his, he figured that the mothers had to be desperate to try to pull something like that on him, so he got out his checkbook and... dealt with stuff. This would have been back in the early days before I was on the scene. Once that happened, he told me that he was worried about whether the Department of Child Services would start questioning whether he was a suitable guardian for me. You can probably guess that it wasn't easy for him to get custody of me in the first place, him being a single parent. So... I don't know what to tell you. Bruce hasn't had any contact with the women or his alleged offspring in... well, I was almost nine when he took me in, so you do the math."

Derek frowned. "He's never mentioned them to you before?"

"I couldn't even tell you how many are boys and how many are girls."

"I see." Derek's face fell for a moment. Then his lips curved upward in a too-broad smile. "Well, if Bruce doesn't know who or where they are, I imagine Mr. Paxton won't find that out either. That should be a load off your mind."

"Yeah."

They faced each other for another moment. Then Derek cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "Well, I'm heading into a meeting now, Dick. I suppose I'll see you around."

"Sure thing, Derek," Dick grinned. He walked away whistling.

Powers' smile took on a pained component, as the tune reached his ears.

_And I am telling you... I'm not going..._

* * *

Dr. Thomas Elliot surveyed the pile of dossiers stacked before him on his desk. Some days, his hands hurt him too much to handle a computer keyboard. Other days, he reminded himself that he hadn't gotten this far in life by underestimating his opponents. With the Oracle operating—and Elliot was so glad that Harold had told him of her existence before the little man outlived his usefulness and had to be eliminated—he had to assume that any electronic search of this nature would contain keywords that would alert her to his activities. No, he'd been canny. His first logon had been at one of the few internet cafes left in the city that actually had a bank of desktop computers instead of simply offering free wi-fi. He'd stayed on just long enough to define his search parameters and obtain a list of likely names. And then, over the course of the next six weeks, he'd visited a dozen public terminals in libraries, internet cafes, and commuter train stations, taking care to allow anywhere from one to five days between searches. At each one, he'd researched a different name.

Now, he reviewed the files before him and assigned an evaluation score based on the subject's skills, strengths, weaknesses, likelihood of interest, and availability. He didn't think that Fixx was necessarily wrong about using Selina Kyle to get to Bruce. He just thought that the young enforcer was being unnecessarily sloppy. He shook his head, but he was smiling. It wasn't so much that if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. More like if you wanted something done right, you needed to do your homework and determine the best man for the job. Or... Elliot smiled. In this case, the best _person_.

He opened the dossier he'd ranked number one and studied the picture on the first page. Later, when his hands didn't ache so much, he'd need to remember to clip the documents together it so that they wouldn't fall out. The woman in the picture appeared to be in her late 30s. Her expression was fierce, her features striking. He wondered at the white streak in her long dark hair, which reminded him of a character he'd of read long ago in a fantasy novel. He smiled. The head of a ruthless terrorist organization, with ample reason to hate both Catwoman and Batman... yes, Red Claw would be most suitable for this mission. He smiled. She had ties to Multigon Corporation, a business whose stock had plummeted when their affiliation with her had come to light. They seemed to be recovering now, but Elliot would lay odds that some of the old guard still remained. One of them would know how to get in touch with her. He just needed to send someone that they would trust to make the necessary inquiries.

He reached for the telephone. "You have a new assignment," he said when False Face answered. "One I'm sure you're going to enjoy..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For the record, the character of whom Hush is thinking is Polgara the Sorceress, who appears in a dozen books by David Eddings.


	34. 33. Paralyzing Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta.
> 
> “Suffocating” written by Miranda Lambert and Hillary Scott. Recorded by Blake Shelton on his All About Tonight album (Reprise, 2010).

_The memory of what used to be cuts me like a thorn_   
_Loneliness starts rollin' in like thunder from a storm_   
_My strength starts to sway, I feel the winds of change_   
_It's such a paralyzing place, oh, and it's suffocating_

_—Miranda Lambert, Hilary Scott, “Suffocating”_

**Chapter 33—Paralyzing Place**

The woman known as the Red Claw was even more imposing in person than she had appeared in her photograph. Nearly six feet tall, she wore a red sleeveless jumpsuit that displayed muscular arms and a red tattoo in the shape of a bear claw on her right shoulder.

“May I offer you some coffee?” Hush inquired.

Red Claw shook her head. “Thank you, no,” she replied in smooth, but accented English. “I’d prefer we dispense with the social niceties and move on to business. Your contact said that you have a proposal for me.”

“I do,” Hush returned smoothly. “Or, at least, an opportunity.”

Her upper lip curled. “An opportunity,” she said, suspicion plain. “Proposals generally include financial compensation. Opportunities, on the other hand...” her face hardened, “opportunities frequently involve a suggestion that I should be happy to work for you for the mere thrill of the experience. I believe you call such assignments ‘portfolio builders’. I hope that you were simply using a poor choice of words.”

Hush smiled. “Call it a proposal _and_ an opportunity, then,” he said, unruffled. “I’ll be blunt. I want to hurt—not kill, although I wouldn’t be upset should that happen—but hurt Batman. The original Batman; not the protégé currently wearing his costume. The method for so doing is simple: strike at those closest to him. He has the amusing conceit that he can protect them. Every time he’s shown that their safety is outside his control, he becomes more driven, more erratic,” his smile turned predatory, “more vulnerable. I like the thought of his being destroyed. I simply prefer to watch as he does it to himself.”

Red Claw rolled her eyes. “I presume that there is a point to this? Or did you invite me here because you needed an audience to tell you how clever you are?”

If Hush was annoyed or irritated by her questions, he didn’t let it show. “Forgive me. I know that you have been outside of Gotham for the last several years, and you may not be aware of current developments—”

“I’m aware that the Batman you want to hurt is the industrialist Bruce Wayne, who was incarcerated in a mental institution for nearly two years. I do try to stay informed,” she cut him off, sounding bored.

“Ah,” Hush said, consciously imitating her tone. “Then you’re aware that he’s currently in a relationship with Selina Kyle... I think you knew her as Catwoman?”

For an instant, her eyebrows shot up. Then she quickly regained her composure. “So. That is the opportunity. I am now willing to entertain your proposal.”

Hush named a figure. She nodded curtly. “I will consider this,” she said. “You will have my answer within twenty-four hours.”

In truth, she could have told him now and she would have been willing to take the job for far less, but Hush struck her as a man used to getting his own way. Far better to let him sweat for a day over whether she was on board. And if he was willing to offer such generous remuneration, she had no objection to taking his money off his hands.

She waited until she was back in her chauffeured limousine, hidden from public view behind dark-tinted windows, before she finally allowed herself to smile.

* * *

 

Bruce arrived at the academy at half-past six the next morning. By ten to seven, he was standing outside the driving simulator room. He wasn’t the only one there, although he might as well have been. The others clustered together ahead of and behind him. Bruce wasn’t about to demean himself by trying to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted. He knew that when Sgt. Uminga appeared, they would straighten out the line.

Kotsopoulos flashed him a quick, guilty smile, before he looked away and resumed his conversation with Burns and Rodriguez. Bruce tried not to judge him too harshly. He’d always preferred to be on the sidelines of any group, as it was. There was no reason to resent Kotsopoulos for throwing his lot in with the majority, particularly as he’d encouraged the few cadets still speaking with him to do the same. Kotsopoulos’ behavior was disappointing, but Bruce didn’t blame him for it. At least, he shouldn’t.

“How’s it going?” Norton asked.

Bruce turned toward him. “It’s morning,” he replied.

“Yeah. I was in the stables last night and overheard something about J—”

Bruce held up a warning hand. “If we’re meant to know, we’ll find out soon enough. Meanwhile, that’s confidential.”

Norton blinked. “You already know?”

“Not relevant,” Bruce said. “It’s not a topic for discussion.” He frowned. “Speaking of stables, you mentioned that your father keeps horses. Have you taught riding before?”

“Not really. I mean, I can tell if a rider’s not gripping or the horse doesn’t understand the signals, but the horses we kept were usually in need of rehab after bad experiences. If we got them to a point where they could be ridden, we’d send them to other stables. If not, they stayed with us.”

Bruce nodded. “Years ago, I taught a nine-year-old boy. He already knew the basics. In fact, he was a trick rider of some skill.” His lips twitched. “I suppose the hardest part was teaching him to stay in the saddle for any length of time. Not because he was prone to falling off, but because he was prone to standing upright while the horse was at full gallop. Among other things.”

Norton frowned. “How was the horse in all of that?”

“The ones he learned his tricks on were part of a traveling circus. As for our rides... I don’t know, but he performed those stunts in full view of the stable staff. The horse didn’t appear to be suffering and the staff didn’t protest, once they realized that the boy knew what he was doing.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Norton said. “A couple of our rescues came to us from owners who thought they could train stunt horses. They were wrong and the animals suffered. I tend to get my hackles up a bit when I hear about trick riding now, even though I know that there are plenty of trainers and tricks that aren’t abusive.”

“I understand,” Bruce smiled. “It was a fair question.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a benchmark against which to gauge Brenner’s progress. I’ve noted some improvement...”

“A lot of improvement,” Norton said. “Especially in one key area: he’s more relaxed on horseback and the horse is calmer, too.” He glanced up, smiled, and waved. A moment later, Brenner strode up.

“I was just telling our squad leader that you and Taupe are starting to work really well together,” he said warmly.

Purposeful footsteps in the distance quickly ended all conversations and the cadets fell into line a moment before Uminga rounded the corner. Not before Bruce caught the surprised smile on Brenner’s face and a mouthed ‘thanks’ aimed at both himself and Norton, though.

* * *

 

“Nicely done, Cadet Ortega,” Uminga said crisply as she made a notation on her clipboard. “You’ve been practicing.”

Ortega drew herself up to stand at attention. “Ma’am, yes, Ma’am,” she replied.

After the sergeant moved on to the next cadet, she cast a grateful look in Bruce’s direction. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Bruce gave her a quick smile.

* * *

 

The day wore on. Bruce ignored the jibes and cold shoulders and tried, as usual, to discourage the few friends he had left from speaking with him. It did little good. Norton still seemed oblivious to the hostility. Ortega maintained that the extra practice with the driving simulator was paying off. And Brenner... well, he _had_ to work a good deal more closely with Brenner than he did Ortega. Ortega simply needed time with his simulator. Brenner needed riding lessons.

They practiced the mounted drills for nearly an hour after classes officially ended for the day. Then he made sure that Brenner finished tending to his mount. “Go on,” he said finally. “I’ll finish up here.”

Brenner frowned. “I could wait, Squad Leader,” he ventured. “It’s my fault you’re staying later, as it is.”

Bruce shook his head. “I won’t be long, Brenner. You go ahead. There are those search and seizure practices to review.”

Brenner looked as though he was about to voice another protest, but all he said was, “Yes, sir.”

Bruce watched him go. Then he started brushing Shilling. He was reaching for the currycomb, when a voice behind him rumbled, “You’re working wonders with that cadet.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. Then he rose quickly to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

Captain Alanguilan smiled. “At ease, Squad Leader. Don’t keep your partner waiting.”

Bruce allowed himself a fleeting smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Shilling’s a surprisingly good judge of character,” Alanguilan continued. “Better than most people, I think. Have you given any thought to your placement after you graduate?”

As long as it eventually allowed him to wear the cowl without courting arrest, he didn’t care if it was guarding the evidence room in the city’s quietest precinct. Well, he cared, but he would still accept any assignment they handed him. “No, sir.”

“Start,” Alanguilan said. “Some posts fill up faster than others. Incidentally,” he added, “you might want to give special consideration to openings with First Precinct in Old Gotham. The woman in charge there—that would be Captain Samnee—she ran into some trouble early in her career very much like what you’re going through now. If you’re under her command, I believe you’re likely to get a fairer deal than elsewhere. Just something to consider.” He started walking away.

“Don’t be here too much later, Squad Leader. I can’t lock up until you leave.”

“Understood, sir,” Bruce called after the captain’s retreating back. In an undertone, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

* * *

 

Cass rarely let anyone sneak up on her. Cain had impressed on her early the need to be aware of her surroundings and any potential threats at all times. However, despite Jeremiah’s coaching, the civics portion of the GED was still her second-weakest area.

She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d been in her late teens when she’d arrived in the United States and she hadn’t known or understood any more about its government than she had that of China or Japan or any of the other countries she’d passed through after running from Cain. She hadn’t fully understood the concept of countries or borders at that time; she’d only known that if she got past a certain point on a road, she needed to slip past uniformed men and women unseen and once she did, the sounds of the spoken words she hadn’t understood often changed. The colors of the printed paper rectangles and the sizes of the metal discs exchanged for food and other necessities altered as well—although the passersby she encountered tended to store them in the same spots on their persons and she knew how to be stealthy. The shopkeepers had accepted the colored rectangles and discs when she’d handed them over as well. Often, they even gave her more in new colors and sizes. But she hadn’t known about countries then or how they differed.

She looked at the sample questions before her now. At the top of the page was a chart that listed different types of government, their characteristics, and countries for each type. She frowned. “Mon-ar-chai,” she said under her breath. “Monar-chee?” She shook her head. She didn’t have to know how to say it out loud. “Dic-tay-tor-ship. Ol-i-gar-chee. Dem-o-cra-see.” She read the characteristics and examples carefully and looked at the first question.

**A military leader uses his power to overthrow...**

“Hi, Cass!”

Startled, she half-jumped in her seat. Then, forcing a smile to her face despite her embarrassment, she looked up. She knew the voice. “Hello, Doug.”

The head of Volunteer Services smiled back. “I guess you made it home okay the other night,” he said.

“Yes.” Too abrupt, she realized. “Thank you. I... had a good time.”

“I was wondering,” Doug hesitated, “do you like sports? I know someone with season passes to the Knights games and he sometimes gets me tickets for the ones he can’t make.”

Cass frowned. “Baseball?” Grown men waving a stick to hit a ball and running around... She could understand practicing aim, speed, and endurance. She might even enjoy playing it herself. But why in the world would so many people want to _watch_ it? “Um... no.”

Doug looked so disappointed that she added a belated “Sorry,” to her statement. “Maybe... martial arts? Gymnastics?” She might be able to get some ideas for moves and combinations that she could incorporate on patrol.

“Hmmm...” Doug seemed thoughtful. “I can check into that. There might be something. How’s the studying going?”

Cass sighed. “Bad.”

“Trouble?”

“Civics.”

“Oh, right,” Doug nodded. “I’m guessing from the way you speak, you probably weren’t born here, even though you don’t talk with an accent. Yeah, taking it all as a crash course is going to be rough.” He sat down next to her. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Here.”

Doug skimmed the page and let out a low whistle. “You’ve got a better excuse than I do,” he said.

“Excuse?” What was he talking about?

“Yeah,” Doug smiled. “You’ve never taken this before. I have, but even though the questions all look familiar, I’m ashamed to say I’ve forgotten a lot of the answers. Do you understand what you’re reading?”

Cass started to nod, but honesty won out. “Some.”

“Okay... why don’t you try explaining it to me? Maybe that’ll help me remember.”

She smiled. “Sure, Doug. Okay. So... um... Monarchee—”

Doug coughed. “Actually, it’s ‘monar-key’.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! So is this one... Ol-ee-gar- _key_?”

“That’s right.”

Cass exhaled. Monarchy. Oligarchy. Okay. Okay, she did know those words. At least, the telepath who’d rewired her brain years ago had included them when he’d given her an understanding of the English language. She’d just never heard them spoken before and so, she hadn’t connected the senseless spelling with the right sounds. Okay, she could do this. Okay.

* * *

 

Bruce’s good mood lasted until he returned to the manor and found it still empty. Not that he’d expected Selina or Helena to be back. He would have taken Selina to task if she had been there. Still, the house was far too quiet.

On cue, the harsh jangle of the telephone broke into his thoughts and he grabbed the extension off of the hall table. “Hello?”

“What did they offer you?” a harsh voice demanded without preamble.

Bruce suppressed a sigh. “Good evening, Councilor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There was a slow, bitter laugh on the other end. “Don’t give me that, Wayne. Was your old buddy Jim worried that Alvin would find some stuff he’d slipped under the rug? Why would you want to destroy my brother? Who paid you off?”

This time, he didn’t suppress it. “Councilor,” he said tiredly, “I had no say whatsoever in the decision of the tribunal. If your brother wants to appeal their decision—”

Neal Jandt laughed again. “Please. He’s off in some bar getting plastered again. Don’t you understand? This is destroying him.”

“Again,” Bruce said, holding his ire in check, “I had no influence and no say in the tribunal’s verdict. I doubt very much that you can file the appeal on your brother’s behalf, though you’re welcome to try.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Oh, but you could have had influence, Wayne. A man of your reputation and standing? Had you wanted to sway the verdict, we both know that you could have done so. But... have it your way. I’m sure I’ll have ‘no influence and no say’ when your own hearing rolls around in a few months time. And don’t be too surprised if a complimentary case of Glenfidditch turns up at your front door when you come back from that. See if you deal with the outcome any better than Alvin. That’s assuming you do return home after your hearing. Perhaps I’ll have to ship it to you care of Arkham Asylum.”

The line went dead.

Bruce replaced the phone in its cradle and tried to put the councilor’s words out of his mind. The hearing wasn’t for months yet, and he was fairly sure that Jandt wouldn’t have a voice in the proceedings when it did roll around. All the same, he knew that his freedom was still a delicate thing and he wasn’t sure that he could shrug off Neal Jandt’s insinuations as so much chain-rattling. He had an uncomfortable feeling that municipal politicians might wield a good deal more influence with the Mental Health Authority than a police cadet with an academy disciplinary tribunal.

* * *

 

Red Claw fought down a surge of frustration as she watched the Teen Titans converge on the gang of ersatz Jokers in Robinson Park. Their white make-up and green wigs announced boldly their admiration for Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime, as did their name: _Jokerz_. They were armed with rubber chickens, seltzer bottles, and other ridiculous-looking gag props, all of which were deadlier than they appeared to be at first glance.

One of the Jokerz cackled madly as he swung a rubber chicken. Electricity crackled and Harrier flipped out of the way.

The bird impacted a young birch tree and wrapped about it. A smell of charcoal wafted toward the hidden woman and she noted that the white bark bore scorch marks when the youth jerked his weapon free.

“Whaddaya think?” the clown drawled mockingly. “Is it a roaster or a fryer? Hee hee! Let’s find out...”

“Let’s not!” Ravager snapped, swishing her sword through the air. It sliced through the rubber chicken—and the fingertips of the Jokerz thug’s glove, as though both were tissue paper. For a moment, the clown-faced youth gaped, first at her, then down at his hand, as though reassuring himself that his fingers were still intact. Then he dropped the remains of the chicken and turned to run.

Harrier’s bo staff smacked into his belly, knocking the wind out of him. Meanwhile, Dodge seized hold of two more and vanished. They reappeared a moment later, the two thugs trembling and wide-eyed as they collapsed to their knees.

“W-we surrender,” gasped one.

“Don’t s-send us back there!” gulped the other.

A scream from Miss Martian made Harrier’s smile drop. One of the Jokerz had a flamethrower and was giggling as he waved it slowly, tauntingly, forcing the green-skinned teen back against a stone wall.

“Hang on, M’Gann!” Static, the team’s newest member, lunged forward, seizing the Joker wannabe’s arm.

“YEARGH!” The youth’s green hair rose on end as Static’s electromagnetic power surged through him, shocking him to unconsciousness.

Three more fell to Wonder Girl’s lasso. Once they realized that their fellows—including their leader—had been subdued, the remaining Jokerz raised their hands in surrender.

Harrier exhaled. “Miss Martian, see if you can find a few squad cars to take these guys off our hands.” He did a quick head count. “Looks like we’ve got a dozen here.” He surveyed the rest of the team. “Nice work, guys.”

“Want to see what else is doing?” Wonder Girl asked.

Harrier shook his head. “It’s late. We’ll just head back to base for debriefing...”

There was a groan from Ravager.

“More paperwork?” Static demanded. “I’ve still got to tackle my physics homework...”

“Fine,” Harrier relented. “We’ll just head back to base. Debriefing tomorrow afternoon.”

Red Claw turned away with a sigh. She’d been tailing Harrier in hope that he would lead her to Catwoman instead of joining up with his friends and taking down a bunch of toughs that her organization wouldn’t deign to use for target practice. They weren’t worth the cost of the ammunition it would take to eliminate them.

She debated whether to look for another vigilante to tail. A look at the night sky, decided her. It was clear enough for her to see the thin crescent of the moon and the bright pinpoints of stars, but there was no Bat-signal shining down tonight. Gotham was large and the local vigilantes were stealthy. Better by far to return to her current base of operations and rest, than to wear herself out looking for needles in haystacks.

Crime, like the moon, waxed and waned in Gotham, but never disappeared. The Bats and Titans would be out again tomorrow, and the night after that. Sooner or later, one of them was going to slip and lead her to Catwoman. Unfortunately, that wasn’t likely to happen tonight.

Reluctantly, she slipped out of the park and into her waiting car.

* * *

 

Bruce discharged his shotgun, ignoring the sting in his cheek and the force of the recoil. Part of him wondered if maybe he needed the pain as a reminder that the gun was a serious weapon. He suppressed a sigh. No. He did not need a reminder.

He watched as Farnham went out to the field, collected the targets, made a notation on his clipboard for each one, and returned.

“Excellent work, Cadet Laramie,” he said, handing back the sheet of heavy paper with its pockmarked bulls-eye.

“Keep it up, Cadet Norton.”

“Cadet Dawson, you need a better cheek weld. It shows in your scores.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dawson mumbled.

“Cadet Wayne.” Farnham handed him the sheet and moved on without further comment.

Bruce looked at it. His lessons with Jim had paid off. He’d discharged every shot into the “kill” zone. Well, perhaps Farnham would get off his case, but Bruce was hard-put to consider this anything to be proud of.

* * *

 

Helena had finally stopped jumping off of the cot, jumping _on_ the cot, clamoring for _agua_ (and Selina had no idea where she’d picked up the Spanish word for water. She had a suspicion that Bruce was trying to teach her another language early.), pleading for a story or whimpering for a cuddle. Selina smiled fondly down at her sleeping daughter and wondered how it was possible that the little hellion who had spent nearly an hour fighting naptime could turn into a little angel when she finally succumbed to sleep.

She tiptoed away from the cot, scarcely daring to breathe, as she made her way to the exercise area. Today, she opted for a Pilates routine. With Helena asleep, she could finally allow herself to focus on the exercises. It also helped her keep from dwelling on the fact that they hadn’t had a breath of fresh air in nearly five days. Selina hated confinement.

She reminded herself fiercely that Bruce had passed the better part of a year indoors in Arkham. Then again, Bruce hadn’t exactly been in his right mind at the time. Then again, regardless of her frame of mind, she ought to be able to handle a few days! She sighed. And there went her focus. It looked like it was going to be gymnastics, after all.

She started with the uneven bars and soon moved to the balance beam. After her last dismount, she lay back on the mat and went through a series of stretches. She wasn’t as tense anymore, but she was still feeling the effects of cabin fever. Sighing, she stalked over to the computer monitors.

“Talk to me, Oracle,” she said as she collapsed into the padded swivel chair. “I’m about this close to checking what’s on TV. At this time of day, it’s going to be the soaps and I don’t want to get hooked on one of those.”

The overhead monitor winked on and the Oracle mask appeared. “Shh! The Brave and the Brilliant just came back from a commercial.”

Selina sucked in her breath. “I hope you’re kidding.”

The digital mask fell away. “Of course I’m kidding,” Barbara said. “Who has time for TV?”

“Right now?” Selina sighed. “Me. Unfortunately.”

“Feeling restless?” Barbara clucked sympathetically. “I know what that’s like.”

“I... guess you do,” Selina admitted, chastened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

Barbara shrugged. “Hey, you don’t have anything to apologize for. In my case, it was by choice. And that didn’t mean I didn’t go a little stir crazy every so often.”

Selina nodded. “Got any tips?”

“Yeah,” Barbara grinned. “Look to your left. That big data-server is a holo-projector. Bruce used it mostly for training, but it can replicate just about any environment. It’s not perfect; you get sight and sound, but you’re on your own for smell and taste. Touch... the projectors will modify anything solid within the target area. So if you move that chair you’re sitting on into a Victorian sitting room, it’s going to morph into a wing chair or an ottoman, but it’ll still feel the same. Bruce made some modifications for combat practice; something about interfacing with the cave’s defense systems so that it _looks_ like an opponent is punching you, but it’s more like an airbag on an extending arm. Anyway, that doesn’t sound like something you’ll want to use.”

“Nope,” Selina smiled in return. “I just want to pretend I’m outside for a while. No combat, no natural disasters, no evil masterminds. How do I do that?”

“Turn on the server,” Barbara directed. “When it asks you for a password, type ‘clocktower’. Capitalize the _second_ ‘c’. The first ‘o’ is a zero and the ‘l’ is an exclamation point. No, that’s not one of Bruce’s passwords. But a while back, he created a back door into _my_ systems. I just returned the favor.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Selina replied, walking the short distance to the server and hitting the power button. “Okay. I’m typing ‘c!0Cktower’ now. Then what?”

“Just follow the prompts. Call me if you hit a snag, but you should be fine.”

“Will do.” She thought for a moment. Then she began typing ‘Big Cypress National Preserve’. She had a sudden desire to see a Florida Panther up close...

* * *

 

_He was in Crime Alley, but something had changed. He wasn’t eight years old anymore. He was big and he had a gun. As he emerged from the alley, eerie laughter echoed through the narrow streets. That was wrong. The streets weren’t narrow. It was an old neighborhood, built in the days when the roads had needed to be wide enough to accommodate horse-drawn carriages. This maze of winding roads didn’t belong here. Strangely, though, even as one part of him recognized that this wasn’t the Crime Alley it should be, his feet seemed to know which way to go._

_Sure enough, he rounded a bend and found himself face-to-face with the Joker. At his feet, he saw Jason’s mangled body. He saw Barbara, her face contorted in a grimace of pain as she tried to crawl away using only her arms as a spot of red on her back widened, staining the blue of her cape a deep, murky, purple. That was wrong too, the detached part of him noted. Barbara hadn’t been Batgirl when Joker had shot her. And Jason hadn’t died in Gotham. As he tried to reconcile his memories with the scene before him now, his gaze fell on Sarah Essen-Gordon, sprawled on the ground, a baby in her arms and an entry wound in her right temple._

_No. No more. Enough was enough. The gun was in his hand almost at the speed of thought and his aim was steady as he pulled the trigger. The Joker crumpled and fell without a sound._

_Bruce took a cautious step forward, hardly daring to believe that it was really over. He turned the body gently..._

_...And looked into a stranger’s face. Yes, there were some similarities; the shape of the jaw, the color of the suit... but the dead man on the pavement wasn’t the Joker. He’d shot an innocent man._

_A choking sound behind him made him turn and he saw a child looking on in horror. “D-dad?”_

Bruce awoke in a cold sweat. Dream. It had been a dream.

But he would have to be a fool not to realize how easily it could come true...

* * *

 

Neal Jandt looked at the bottle of scotch sitting innocuously on his desk blotter and then at the drained shot glass before him. This wasn’t like him, not at all. He tried calling his brother again and hung up when he rang through to voice mail. He hadn’t heard from Alvin since the verdict. He’d spoken briefly to Michelle, but she hadn’t had anything helpful to say. She seemed resigned to her husband’s drinking binges... or perhaps she was afraid that confronting him would guarantee another night out, whereas letting matters lie only granted the possibility.

Neal rubbed his forehead. His sister-in-law deserved better. Had Wayne played ball, she might have gotten it. Instead, she had a husband who was a virtual time-bomb set to explode their suave comfortable image and destroy his political career in the process. Alvin could put them all under a microscope, and nowadays, who didn’t have some embarrassing secret they wouldn’t want made public? Wayne thought he had problems with his own secrets out, but Wayne wasn’t embarking on a political career. No, Wayne was another time bomb. He had to be defused. And Neal Jandt had an idea of who to approach to do it.

He pulled out his phone again and punched in a number. “Captain Carruthers,” he said cordially. “Hello, Sid. Neal Jandt here. I was wondering whether you might care to join me for a coffee whenever you come off duty. I’d like to talk to you about the possibility of increasing your precinct’s budget. A special favor... friend to friend?”

 


	35. 34. Lucky Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "River Runs Dry" lyrics by Jon Bon Jovi and Desmond Child. Recorded by Bon Jovi on their _100,000,000 Bon Jovi Fans Can't Be Wrong... The Premiere Collection_ album (Universal, 2004)

_...A man has got to face his own mistakes_

_Sometimes you get a lucky break_

_Sometimes your winning streak will stay_

_Sometimes you gotta pay_

— _Jon Bon Jovi, Desmond Child, "River Runs Dry"_

**Chapter 34—Lucky Breaks**

Captain Sidney Carruthers held the phone away from his ear as Jandt raged on. When Neal had told him what he wanted, Sidney had been sure the councilor was joking. He hadn't been. Sidney's advice to "Give it up. Alvin messed up and he got a fair hearing over it," had been met with a long diatribe that convinced him his best friend was wasted in municipal politics. With his talent for filibuster, he needed a place on Capitol Hill. After the first four minutes, Jandt had begun repeating himself. Carruthers tried several times to get a word in edgewise, but the furious city councilor kept going full steam.

He shook his head sadly, wondering what had happened to the popular high school varsity quarterback he'd known two decades ago. Neal had seemed to have everything, but he'd noticed Sid sitting on the sidelines, sought him out, and built him up. Neal had convinced him to try for the track team and it seemed like overnight, Sid Carruthers went from the Invisible Man to Mr. Popularity. The two had remained friends. Sid had never asked whether his promotion to precinct captain had been due to a well-placed word from Neal, but he'd been more than willing (if not completely happy) to conceal Alvin Jandt's more over-the-top antics. He'd nearly balked over the last one—DWI after leaving a charity gala was a good deal more serious, particularly when the perp was an academy cadet. But then, Sid had vouched for the kid when the application had been deferred to panel, and he didn't relish word getting out that someone he'd backed had messed up that badly. So he'd agreed to do Neal that favor against his better judgment. Secretly, though, he'd been relieved when the news had broken despite his efforts. At the moment, he was wishing that he'd never met Neal Jandt, never had the confidence to go out for the track team, and never set his sights on the police academy. He should have gone to live with his Uncle Roddy. He was a sheep farmer in New Zealand.

Neal seemed to have finally run out of breath. Sid sighed. "I'm not sure what you expect me to do, Neal," he said reasonably. "Your brother wasn't framed. There was an investigation and a hearing and I'm sorry to say that the facts didn't exonerate him."

"Come on, Sid," Neal retorted. "This matter would never have come to light if Wayne hadn't blown the whistle. It's obvious he has it in for Alvin and possibly for me, as well."

Wonderful. Neal expected him to take on Batman. "That's..." he cleared his throat. "Councilor, even were that true, he's committed no crime. I can have my people keep an eye out in case that should change, but as matters stand..."

"As matters stand," Neal cut him off, "should Batman launch a full scale investigation into Alvin's activities, I'm nearly positive that a detective of his caliber would notice that many of those activities were kept quiet at the discretion of one individual."

"What?" He couldn't believe that Neal was trying to pull this. "Neal, you begged me to help you out. Are you threatening...?"

"Calm down, Sid," Neal retorted. "I'm not threatening you. I'm only suggesting that you look at the facts and the way in which someone with a vendetta against me and mine might choose to spin them." He paused. "Wayne's in pretty tight with Commissioner Sawyer, isn't he? The right word at the right time..."

Sid's jaw muscles worked furiously. "Leave it with me," he said finally. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Selina rubbed her forehead and tried to tune out her daughter's whines while staying alert to her activities. There was only so much she could childproof in this place and all she needed was for Helena to get into something and get hurt while her back was turned.

A memory flashed into her head. Bruce wasn't much of a talker, but Selina had learned early that he could wax eloquent on certain subjects—including the dossiers of the rogues in his gallery.

" _Bane was born in a prison in Santa Prisca," Bruce said. "His father was a revolutionary who died for the cause. Santa Priscan law allows for substitution: if the guilty party is unable to serve his sentence, his family may be forced to serve in his stead. Family being defined as any and all relatives up to and including fourth cousins. In his father's case, the court was 'lenient' and required only that the man's pregnant widow and any future offspring serve out the life sentence."_

Selina had been aghast. Although she had little love for either Bane or local law enforcement and the corrections system, she'd been glad that such unjust legislation would never pass muster in the US. At the time, she'd felt a wave of sympathy for the child that Bane had once been—locked up for no crime he'd committed, with some of the most ruthless killers and rapists that his small island nation had produced.

As Helena's whines threatened to become full-fledged wails, Selina wondered fleetingly whether it had been equally cruel to subject the other prisoners to a typical toddler. There was no reason to believe that Bane had taken confinement any better than her daughter was.

She closed her eyes for a moment. A loud crash startled them open. Helena had pushed a wheeled desk chair along the smooth floor, and directly into a metal storage unit. Selina sprang out of her chair with a loud "NO!" and ran to pick up her daughter. It wasn't Helena's fault. She was bored and restless and trying to find something interesting to do... but giving Mommy a worse headache wasn't on the 'permitted' list.

Selina was fast running out of options that were.

* * *

Batman was having a good night. He'd been trying to get a lead on a spate of burglaries in the East End for nearly four months. It had been an annoyance; there had been an average of two break-ins each week. But because the crooks never struck when the residents were home and never stayed long, opting to take only what they could grab in the first five or ten minutes, stopping them hadn't been a priority. If he'd had more of an ego, Batman allowed that he would have _made_ them a priority. A ring of thieves operating freely in Gotham for that long made all LEOs, sanctioned or otherwise, look bad. Still, when he thought about the people whom he had helped bring down in the interim: Vanessa Devereux and her League of Assassins security detail, Joker and Harley, the Mad Hatter... to say nothing of Gotham's more violent thugs and lowlifes, he couldn't really say that he'd been wrong to let this outfit slide under the radar.

He'd figured it out when he'd found out about the latest intrusion at Wayne Manor. Each burglary victim used an agency cleaning service. They were different services—which was why he hadn't noticed a pattern until now, but he'd finally recognized it. Cleaning agencies often had high employee turnover rates. Three to six weeks prior to each break-in, a new cleaner would arrive at the targeted household. Two weeks after each break-in, the cleaner would quit and—in at least eight confirmed instances—move on to a different agency. Batman doubted that the agencies were involved. It seemed to be the same five cleaners, casing the homes they were sent to and coming back later, taking nothing that wasn't easily accessible and leaving swiftly. Had they quit sooner, they might have even gotten away with it. Instead... Batman shook his head as he snapped a handcuff around the last cleaner's wrist, passed the connecting chain through the fire escape railing, and snapped the other cuff around her other wrist. Then he called Oracle to let the police know.

"Tell Bruce, too," he added. "It might cheer him up a little."

"Very little," Barbara replied sadly. "He misses them."

"I know. Have you heard anything?" The channel over which they were speaking was supposed to be secure, but they'd had enough of their systems and safe-houses compromised over the years to be careful about what details they divulged over their comm-links.

"No news," Barbara sighed. "You coming in?"

No news was good news, Batman translated. They were safe. He didn't need to know whether they were still in the satellite cave where he and Tim had taken them the other night, or whether they'd moved locations. Wherever they were, they were okay for the time being.

He was about to answer Barbara's question when he froze. His back muscles tensed like they always did when he wasn't alone and didn't know who had joined him. "Hold that thought, O.," he whispered.

He spun about quickly but found nobody. Every sense alert, his gaze panned the rooftop on which he stood, as well as those of the surrounding buildings. He turned back, took a running leap forward, caught the chimney edge and flipped up into a handstand. When he still saw nobody, he righted himself and whirled, checking in all directions. Nothing. He held himself very still, watching and listening for fifteen interminable minutes. When no intruder emerged, he reluctantly gave in and swung away.

Crouching in the shadows, Red Claw let out a sigh of relief as she watched him go. Patience was a virtue that she tried to cultivate, but after a quarter-hour, hers had worn quite thin. She'd been nearly ready to risk standing up, but some instinct had told her to endure a little longer.

She would not follow Batman tonight. He would be too wary, too watchful. If he had been planning to seek out Catwoman when he was finished thinning the herd of scavengers who scrabbled for crumbs, while the true predators, such as Hush and Penguin sought feasts, she knew that he would not do so now. That was only a minor setback. She could wait. Eventually, someone would let their guard down and they would lead her to her quarry. She could afford to be patient. Prolonging the chase would make her victory all the sweeter.

* * *

Dick was sitting at his desk at 10:15 the next morning and trying not to yawn when his phone rang. He picked up on the second ring. "Grayson here."

Sal's voice was a bit too controlled. "Your system may have detected something. Parking garage Level Three. Taking Elevator B up to the fiftieth. Or so he thinks. We're diverting to Pick-up B."

Two floors down from the Building Security office. His sleepiness faded. "I'm on my way," he said. "How long to intercept?"

"We've cut car velocity fifty per cent and set the overrides to bypass any summons en route. Seven minutes on my mark...now."

Dick nodded to himself. That was time enough to grab his escrima and a few gadgets he kept locked in his desk for easy access, even if a change to costume was out of the question. "Got it. See you there."

* * *

A team of security guards was already waiting for the elevator when Dick strode briskly out of the stairwell. He'd decided against running. The guards were likely to be nervous about facing an unknown intruder and the last thing he wanted to do was risk spooking them by approaching in a rush.

"What do we have, Sal?" he asked, as he reached them.

"We aren't sure," Sal admitted. "But there are three levels of jamming fields cloaking it, whatever it is."

Dick's eyebrows shot up. "That kind of shielding doesn't come cheap."

"No," Fiorini shook his head. "No, it doesn't. It could be a prank. Some bright, bored, rich kid with too much time on their hands, and a talent for electronics, trying to see if they can break in, give us a scare, and get out."

"You're talking about the way some hackers operate," Dick nodded. "Some of them don't actually want information; they want the thrill of knowing they broke into the Pentagon and didn't get caught."

"Exactly. At least," Sal said, "I'll be overjoyed if that's what we have. Because I don't like some of the alternatives."

Dick nodded again. A terrorist, a mercenary... one of the costumed villains... he could name half a dozen possibilities without trying and none of them were particularly appealing.

"Fifteen seconds," one of the guards announced.

They waited tensely. The doors parted to reveal an empty elevator car.

"Stay back," Dick snapped as two of the guards stepped forward. "It could be a trap."

"Do as he says," Sal confirmed.

Dick nodded his thanks and took a cautious step into the car. Nothing appeared disturbed. There was no carpet, which meant that nothing could be concealed under it. The floor was terrazzo—a single sheet with no cracks. Something was off, though. He frowned, trying to determine what was setting his subconscious on edge. The air. It smelled slightly stale—and it shouldn't. The ventilation system at PMWE should have kept fresh air circulating. Was there a malfunction or...? He looked up. One of the ceiling panels was dented. The intruder must have knocked it with something to get out of the car, then shoved it back into place. "He's in the shaft," he called over his shoulder. He reached into his pocket for the grapnel he'd grabbed on his way out of his office. "I'm going after him."

"Anything we can do?" Sal asked.

"You can try watching the elevator doors on the upper floors, if you have the personnel to spare for it," Dick said dubiously, "but since he's got a head start, I'd check the security cameras first."

"We've got 'em. I'll give the orders," Sal acknowledged. "Good luck up there."

"Thanks." He looked at the hatch and frowned. "On second thought, I'll be right back. I think I need to grab something before I pop that top."

* * *

Dick made sure that he wasn't standing directly under the elevator roof hatch when he angled the hat rack he'd hastily fetched from a nearby office upwards to push it open. The hatch fell back with a bang. Almost instantly, there came an answering gun-shot and a neat, dime-sized hole appeared in the terrazzo floor. He glanced over his shoulder to Sal. "Okay," he said. "Change of plans. He's definitely still in the shaft, but I'm not poking my head up there if he's armed and my bulletproof suit's at the dry cleaners." One of the security guards snickered and he smiled and gave a slight bow before his face went serious once more. "Can we keep him in there?"

"We're going to try," the security chief said grimly.

"Refresh my memory," Dick said in an undertone. "Do we use smoke detectors or heat detectors?"

"Heat."

Dick smiled. "Finally, some good news. Do we know how high up he is?"

Sal consulted his tablet. "Infra-red has him about five feet above the car."

That made sense. Going by the size of the impact hole in the floor, the shooter hadn't been too far away. He pulled an egg-shaped device out of his pocket. "As soon as I'm out, close these doors," he ordered."

"Five second delay," Sal warned.

He'd almost forgotten. "No worries. I'll allow for it," he smiled, arming a timer. Now to make sure that the intruder wouldn't be able to just kick the hatch closed again. He reached into his pocket once more and extracted a grappling gun. He fired it, snagging its hook on the edge of the hatch opening. Another bullet hit the floor, but he'd been expecting that. He pulled the cable taut and tied it to the hand rail that ran the perimeter of the car walls. Then he lobbed the smoke grenade gently and stepped out of the car. "Now."

Five seconds later, the doors closed. They waited. It was another ten seconds before they heard the first coughs. "Get ready to turn on the sprinklers," Dick told Sal.

"From what you asked before," Sal replied, "I thought you didn't want them."

"Not until the smoke had a chance to take the fight out of our intruder," Dick explained, "but he's in an enclosed place and we don't want to kill the guy."

One of the guards had been listening to the exchange. "And you fired your grappling gun...?"

"If he'd closed the hatch in time, he could have stopped the smoke from climbing the shaft," Dick smiled. "Tightening the line makes the grappling hook dig in deeper so it's harder to dislodge. He can try," he added darkly, "but I think the smoke will get to him first." He made eye contact with the guard and his smile broadened. "Remember, I need that thing to hold tight when I'm swinging ninety stories up. The last thing I want is some wiseacre pulling it out while I'm in midair."

"Yeah, I can see why," the guard gulped.

Dick checked at his watch. "Give it a few minutes," he murmured. The guards talked softly among themselves as the seconds seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally, Dick looked up. "Okay," He looked around. "Anyone here have paramedic training?"

Three of the security guards raised their hands.

"Good. If you haven't got a first aid kit with you, now's the time to run and get one." He turned back to Sal.

"Sal," he directed, "Turn on the sprinklers in the shaft. I'd let them run two minutes. Then get the doors open and let's see who we're dealing with." He sighed. "If it turns out that I just smoked the Avon lady, I'll buy one of everything in her catalog to make it up to her."

* * *

Bruce poured hot water over the peppermint teabag and passed the cup to Dick. Alfred wouldn't have approved, he thought with a twinge of sadness. He would have brewed it with loose mint leaves in a tea ball and there would have been a strict procedure to be followed unswervingly. However, if brewing tea was an art, for the life of him, Bruce couldn't see why it required scientific precision when neither he nor Dick could tell the difference. "I presume," he said with heavy irony, "that you didn't have to buy any Avon products."

Dick grinned. "No, but I shouldn't have told Babs. She loves some of their skincare stuff." His smile faded. "I ran some ID checks on his weaponry. Serial number on the gun matched a dealer in Metropolis. That tied in with his driver's license. I..." he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "You remember that time when you walked in on the Teen Titans, right when I was doing a decent impression of you?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Oh." He opened his mouth to go on. "Well—"

"It was a _terrible_ impression." Bruce tried to keep a straight face, but a twitch of his lips betrayed him and Dick guffawed.

"Well Roy and Wally didn't think so. However," he said, sobering, "let's say you're right. In that case, I think we can safely state that I've improved a lot. I had a few friendly words with the guy before we turned him over to the cops." His face went flat. "Intergang is involved. I don't know if they were behind the original bomb scare, but this guy figured he'd come in to my place of business and ideally," he coughed, "well, not so ideally for me... He was hoping to take me by surprise while I was in civvies and shoot me. If he couldn't, he figured killing a bunch of innocent bystanders at WE would be a kick in the teeth to both of us, sort of like a red cape to a bull."

"Bulls are colorblind."

"Fine. Superman's cape to _you_ , if you see it in Gotham when you weren't expecting it." He almost laughed again at Bruce's expression. He _did_ laugh again when Bruce nodded in acknowledgment. "Anyway, he figured if he didn't kill me today, I'd be rattled enough to be reckless and even if he were dead or in custody, I'd be easier pickings for the rest of Intergang. I got his statement on CD. Not sure if it'll stand up in court, but I turned it over when the cops showed up." He sighed. "Just another dull day at the office. How's the academy treating you?"

Bruce made a face. "With a mix of indifference and hostility," he admitted. "It's... manageable."

"Yeah. Still stinks, though. I know when they close ranks on you it can get rough." He sighed. "You just couldn't let it go with Jandt, could you? Anymore than you could let the Joker get the death penalty for the one murder he actually hadn't committed."

Bruce frowned. "I did what I deemed necessary to ensure justice."

"Yeah. I know. How's the gun handling going?"

Bruce's expression soured further. "It's getting better. I'm still trying to tell myself that's a good thing."

"Another thing I can relate to." Dick shook his head empathetically. "If it helps you knowing this, I never actually had to fire mine, though if I'd stayed with the BPD, it probably would have happened eventually. It's not like it's all in a day's work or anything, thankfully," he added. "Not even in Bludhaven."

"I know." He smiled. "I know the East End burglaries were giving you headaches. You must have been relieved to close the file."

Dick nodded. "I've got something else to keep me on my toes, though. I'm pretty sure someone's been shadowing me. I checked with Tim and Raven and it's not a Titans' stealth training exercise, though that would have been nice."

"Not to mention necessary," Bruce said seriously. "You might want to suggest it. For now..." he sighed. "I don't need to tell you to be careful anymore, do I?"

Dick grinned. "Not really, but it's still nice to hear you care."

 _It's nice to know that you finally realize it and don't automatically assume that I doubt your field capabilities._ Bruce smiled. "Well. Be careful, then."

"Hang in there."

* * *

Helena wouldn't eat. Selina had tried coaxing her with puddings, canned fruit, applesauce, and microwaveable macaroni and cheese. To no avail. She'd fished raisins and other dried fruit out of the trail mix. To no avail. After an hour at the table, the only thing that she'd deigned to down was a sippy cup of apple juice. When Selina persisted, Helena fussed and whined. "No eat," she mumbled. "Nap."

Both of Selina's eyebrows shot up. "You... you actually _want_ to nap?" she asked incredulously. "Are you feeling all right?" She put a hand to her daughter's forehead. "You're not, are you?" she answered her own question, amusement giving way to concern. "Okay." She lifted Helena down from the stool. "Let's get you checked out," she said, carrying her daughter to the medical area. "I think you're running a fever."

Five minutes later, she was on the comm-link. "I know that 102.4 isn't necessarily serious," she was saying, "but I'd feel better if I could take her to a doctor to get her checked out."

Barbara nodded sympathetically. "How's her skin tone?"

Selina smiled. "Normal. Thankfully. I should have guessed something was up when she wasn't getting into mischief," she admitted. "She's napping now. I read her one of her storybooks and she was still filling in the blanks if I paused too long before finishing the sentences."

"So she's alert," Barbara smiled back. "Is she breathing normally?"

"Oh, yes." She sighed. "I just feel like I ought to be doing something, even if I'm pretty sure that a doctor would just tell me to leave it alone and she'll be fine."

"I hear you," Barbara nodded. "Well, I guess you've probably looked up the same information I'm checking now, as far as which symptoms spell danger and which ones aren't really that serious."

"She's been sick before," Selina smiled. "Not often, thankfully, but yeah, I've got the checklist. I know she's probably going to be fine. Until she is, though..."

"I'll tell you what," Barbara smiled back. "How about I ask Bruce to fix up a care package from the manor? Some of Helena's favorite toys, a few changes of clothes for both of you... I'll add some homemade soups—none of that just-add-water, high-salt stuff that Alfred would have had a fit about, had he known Bruce was stockpiling it." She frowned. "Come to think of it, are you just eating his emergency rations?"

Selina nodded. "Dick was planning to bring some fresh stuff by last night, but he radioed ahead to say that he thought he was being followed and didn't want to risk it."

"Yeah, he mentioned." Barbara sighed. "He really felt bad about it."

"I know, but he would have felt worse if he'd led someone straight to us." Her smile turned fierce. "I would have made _sure_ he felt worse."

"Well, I hope you wouldn't dent him too badly. He's still got his uses."

"Oh?" Selina asked wickedly. "Care to share some details?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Selina laughed. "Maybe I'll leave it to the imagination. Reality can be deadly dull sometimes."

"But not always," Barbara replied mischievously. "So... would you like that care package? I'll figure out how to get it to you."

"If you can pull that off," Selina grinned, "I'll be so grateful I'll drop the other subject." She shook her head. "In future, if you're going to banter about your love life, I'd recommend keeping the Oracle mask up. Your face is practically the same color as your hair, right now."

Barbara sighed. "I was afraid of that..."

* * *

Cass was struggling with a math practice test when Barbara called. "How's it going?"

Cass paused the audio. "Easier," she admitted. "Hearing instead of reading. Except with math. I can do some in my head, but others I have to _see_ and it's so slow..." She shook her head. "I know. Payyyyyyyyyyyy-tience," she drew the word out with an eyeroll. "Prrrrrrrrractice. A scribe to write down my answers. But I still need to... solve!"

Barbara nodded. "Do you understand the questions?"

"Yes."

"And you're getting the right answers?"

"Yes," Cass admitted, "but so... slow! When I do the audio practice tests, it keeps asking," she mimicked the slow, friendly voice with the careful enunciation, 'Are you there?' 'Do you need to hear the question again?' 'To hear this question in Spanish, say: Spanish.'" She groaned. "I know I'm slow. It doesn't have to... to..."

"Rub it in?" Barbara asked sympathetically.

"Yes." She reached for a cup of mint green tea and inhaled the fragrance before she took a sip.

On the vid-screen, Barbara tilted her head to one side. "Mind if I ask a question?"

Cass took another sip. "No."

"When the audio prompts you, does it interrupt your concentration?"

She nearly slammed the cup down. "Yes!"

"So it takes you longer to answer the question than it would if the audio didn't prompt you, because you have to find your train of thought again?"

Cass frowned and wondered why Barbara was stating the obvious. "Yes."

"Well," Barbara ventured, "since part of the reason you're doing these practice tests is to see how long it takes you, so the test center knows how much extra time you'll need... you might want to consider pausing the audio while you work out the answer."

Cass frowned. "It's not... cheating?"

"Just note the time that you start the test and the time you end. If it takes you three hours to write a two-hour test with no interruptions and you know the material well enough to pass, then it's not cheating. It's removing a distraction." Something must have shown in Cass's expression, because Barbara continued, "Look. This isn't some... street fight, where you don't get to chose your conditions and you prepare by having the combat simulator throw more and more curve balls into the mix. Um... that means—"

"I know what that means," Cass interrupted testily.

"Good. My point is that they're trying to make the testing as fair as possible. They aren't going to be piping in loud music or baking bread across the hall from the testing room with both doors open. They aren't going to show a movie while you're figuring out the questions. They want you to be focused on the test. Right now, you need the audio to tell you the questions, but keeping it on is hurting your focus. Besides," she grinned, "when you have a scribe during the real test, he or she isn't going to interrupt you every two minutes with 'I'm waiiiiiiiiiiting...'"

Cass laughed. "Okay. I'll try. Still feels... like cheating."

"Yeah, again, that's because whenever you train for anything else, you keep trying to make things harder. For this... you don't need to. You really don't."

"Yeah."

"Now that we've got that out of the way," Barbara said, "I need a favor if you're free later."

Cass considered. "Can be. What?"

Barbara smiled sadly. "I spoke with Selina a little while ago. Helena's running a fever and they're both kind of down. It's probably not serious," she hastened to add, "but Bruce is going to get a few things together for them after he comes home from the academy later and I'll add some things and we'll figure out how to get it to Selina. Anyway, can you pick up Bruce's package from the manor and bring it to me before you start patrol tonight? I'll handle things from there." She made a face. "Wish Bruce had put JLA transporters in some of the other caves and hidey-holes. It would make the logistics so much easier."

Cass nodded. "But... he didn't. So..." she nodded. "Okay. Tell me when or tell Bruce call and tell me when. I'll go."

Barbara's smile grew wider. "Thanks."

* * *

Bruce greeted Cass at the door with a large knapsack and a canvas shopping bag. "I hope this is enough," he said wearily.

Cass peered into the shopping bag. "Good," she smiled. "No cans."

A brief answering smile flitted across Bruce's face. "The safe-houses have sufficient," he said. "I believe that Barbara is sending some cooked food. I..." he looked away, "I haven't had time. And..."

"And you cook like I read," Cass nodded. "Slow or... trouble."

The smile was back and stayed longer this time. "Exactly." He waited as Cass slipped the knapsack onto her shoulders. "There are some clothes in there for both of them."

Cass nodded again. "Toys? Books?"

Bruce shook his head. "It's a good idea, but it was hard enough packing the essentials. Perhaps next time."

Cass frowned. "Bruce... you have no... toys in safe house. For Helena... boring."

"Point," Bruce nodded. "Wait here."

He returned a moment later with a lidded plastic pail of interlocking building blocks and two picture books. "I don't think you should take more than this," he said. "Especially since I don't know how much Barbara is sending."

Cass nodded. "Okay. How are classes?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Small talk, Cassandra?" he murmured.

She gave him a small half-smile. "Curious."

"I suppose they're progressing."

"Good."

* * *

The bus stopped several yards away from the manor's front gate. On most days, Cass paid scant attention to the scenery as she rode along. Today, though, as the bus passed through Bristol's main shopping district, she scanned the street with interest. When the bus passed a store with a window display that made her hopeful, she pressed the bell to signal a stop request and disembarked when the bus pulled up to the curb.

She retraced her route and smiled when she found that she had been right. It _was_ a toy store. Bruce meant well, but Cass didn't think he'd mind if she picked up a small surprise for Helena herself. Perhaps something soft and comfortable to sleep with...

Red Claw didn't know the identity of the young woman with the East Asian features. She'd been monitoring Wayne Manor at intervals over the last five days. She'd start by standing at the bus stop at Mountain View and Ryan Road. Then, after several minutes, she'd begin to walk uphill, past the manor, to Webb Avenue—the stop before. She knew the schedule and tried to time it so that she would be about halfway between the two stops when the bus would arrive at Webb. Then she'd turn and jog past the manor again, looking as though she was trying to run back to Ryan. She'd miss the bus, wait at Ryan a few minutes more, and then repeat the exercise. In this way, she got a good idea of the comings and goings at the manor during daylight hours.

She'd been surprised when the young woman who'd gotten off at Ryan had walked briskly up Mountain View and approached the manor gates. They'd opened before she rang the intercom and closed a moment later. After a moment, Red Claw smiled, turned her reversible spring coat inside out, raised the hood, and used contact lenses to turn her brown eyes to blue. Then she settled back to wait.

The young woman was back before the next bus arrived and she was carrying a knapsack, shopping bag, and bucket that she hadn't had with her before her visit to the manor. Red Claw fought down a wave of excitement. It wasn't necessarily the break that she'd been hoping for, but it appeared promising.

When the woman disembarked, Red Claw followed a careful distance behind. When she entered a toy store, Red Claw smiled. All she needed to do was stay out of sight, and there was an excellent chance that she'd be on Catwoman's doorstep before another day passed.


	36. Tight Holds and Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "Under Attack" written by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus. Recorded by ABBA on their _The Singles: The First Ten Years_ album (Polar, Atlantic, 1982).

_Don't know how to take it, don't know where to go_   
_My resistance running low_   
_And every day the hold is getting tighter and it troubles me so_

— _Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaeus, "Under Attack"  
_

**Chapter 35—Tight Holds and Trouble**

Combat had been Cassandra's first language, movement her alphabet, opponents her books. When she had first run from Cain and her wanderings led her to a city, the silent cacophony of passersby going about their daily business had nearly driven her to distraction. So many people. So many movements, stances, postures and poses. When she had found out that Cain meant her to be a killer, she had been so overwhelmed by horror that she had thought she might go mad. Her first time in a crowded shopping mall had very nearly finished the job.

She had learned. She had always known how to tell when someone meant to attack her and how they planned to move. Now she learned other movements and gestures. She could tell when a hungry street rat was about to seize an opportunity—and a piece of fruit from a passing handcart. She could tell when the owner of the handcart was truly oblivious to the theft, resigned to it, secretly happy, or furious and about to give chase. She could tell when she was being watched...

...And someone was watching her now. To confirm that her instinct was right, instead of going immediately to the bus stop, she walked along the strip mall, stopping here to look in a window, there to purchase an energy bar or smile at the antics of a cockatiel in a pet shop window. She tried on two shirts and a pair of jeans, before she settled on a lavender pullover sweater that she hadn't meant to buy, but thought might look good if Doug did want to take her out again. Barbara said that pinks and purples were 'her' colors. Cass didn't know that people could own them. She did know that the lavender looked good on her in a way that make-up of the same tint did not and she had no idea why.

Just as she had no idea why the woman in the hooded spring coat was still tailing her. Cass frowned. The woman had the loose stride and easy alertness of a seasoned fighter, she noted with an inner groan. Had she come, as Lady Shiva once had, to take Cass's measure and see who was the better warrior? Cass hoped not. Those exercises were pointless in her estimation. She'd never seen much virtue in rankings. She had no interest in being better than anyone else. She simply wanted to be better today than she had been yesterday, regardless of her... her... overall standing! She finished her thought triumphantly.( Doug had given her that turn of phrase when he'd tried to explain to her about the prospects of the Gotham Knights for the upcoming season. She'd listened politely, despite her lack of interest in baseball.)

On reflection, though, Cass didn't think this was the case. She wasn't dressed as Batgirl. She might not be able to control the fact that she moved like a warrior, but she doubted that anyone would guess at her skill level unless they saw her in action, or in costume. On the other hand, she considered, there had been that night that Barbara had sent her to Wayne Manor. The night that Vesper Fairchild had been murdered, she had watched the feed from the manor security cameras and seen Bruce Wayne led away in handcuffs. Nobody had seen her. Barbara had never told her to whom the house belonged. But when she'd seen Bruce on the screen, she'd known that he was Batman. Perhaps there were others like her, who could recognize a person's walk, in or out of costume.

Or, she realized, perhaps there was someone keeping an eye on the comings and goings at Wayne Manor. Jim had caught a member of the cleaning staff going through Selina's room. Dick had been tailed last night. And she'd seen that woman walking past the manor on her way to pick up the bag from Bruce. True she'd been dressed differently, but her walk and her mannerisms were the same. Cass considered. A confrontation would be pointless. The woman was committing no crime by following her; she was breaking no law. If Cass confronted the woman today, she would simply try again tomorrow and be more discreet about it. Evasion would only let her know that she had been spotted—which would lead to the same outcome. But, Cass thought with a small smile, she wasn't going to be the one bringing the items to Selina. Barbara was handling that. And if the woman followed her when she went to Barbara's...

Cass's smile grew wider. This could be fun!

* * *

"You're early," Barbara greeted her at the front door of her apartment.

Cass nodded. "Followed." As she stepped inside, an alarm sounded.

_WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE! WARNING UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE!_

"Oh, for...!" Barbara bit back a curse and uttered the proper cancel code. "Yeah, you were followed. Turn around." She flicked a small device off of the bottom of Cass's jacket. "It's a tracer, all right," she confirmed. "Unlike the one I found on Dick the other day, this just emits a homing signal. It doesn't let the party on the other end listen in. And the baffles I've rigged up since the last time someone tripped that particular alarm have just neutralized it."

"So... safe?" Cass asked.

"That depends on how good the technology is," Barbara admitted. "If it was just telling whoever slapped this on you that they were getting closer, then the trail fizzled out on 'em and that's that. But if it's a bit more sophisticated, it could work more like a GPS, giving exact co-ordinates. STAR Labs has one model that can not only provide an address within seconds, but even pinpoint your altitude and precise position in the room. I don't know how good this one is—I'd have to disassemble it to tell—but let's not take chances." She wheeled over to her console and opened an application.

"I'm feeding a false positive into the smoke detection system," she explained. "That'll get the other residents out of the building. I'm also," she added as an alarm began to sound, "deactivating the programming that triggers an automatic call to the fire department. No point diverting emergency response teams from real emergencies. Plus," she gave Cass a broad smile, "the elevators won't work while the alarm is sounding. This means that your tail is either going to have to scale the outside wall with the crowd watching, or take the stairs to the twenty-fifth floor."

The room went dark. Only the monitors continued to glow. Oracle shook her head. "Okay, whoever they are, they're not stupid. They just cut power to the building. Luckily," she keyed a few instructions into her computer and the lights returned, "I've got back-up generators." She shook her head ruefully. "You had to bring her here, right?"

Cass shrugged. "Here or Selina. She saw me. At Bruce's. Been following since."

Barbara sucked in her breath. Then she smiled. "You made the right choice. Get ready. This is going to be... interesting."

* * *

In his darkened den, Lester Paxton took a sip of cold tea and tried to figure out when he had irrevocably lost control. Two months ago, he had been virtually untouchable. Two months ago, had anyone told him that Chester would betray him, he would have shrugged his shoulders, found an appropriate spin, and had the board on his side before another sun rose. Of course, he thought bitterly, 'spin' was more Chester's area of expertise, but it wasn't as though the man held the monopoly.

Although the shades were drawn, the morning sun persisted in forcing its way in, gleaming at the edges of the windows. Paxton sighed. It seemed like just a moment ago that he'd sunk into his desk chair and watched as the flames in the fireplace slowly consumed the logs that he had placed inside. They were embers now.

Vivi hadn't come home last night. Oh, she'd called to say that the planning for the charity ball had gone long and she didn't feel comfortable driving in the freezing rain, so she was going to spend the night with a girlfriend. He had his suspicions, but with everything else going wrong in his life, he preferred to take his wife at her word unless forced to do otherwise.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. Paxton closed his eyes. For a moment, he considered not answering. He checked the caller ID. "Private Number" could mean anyone, including his lawyer. Hoping against hope, he picked up. "Lester Paxton."

He flinched when he heard the all-too-familiar laugh. "Lester! You old dog! How are you this fine afternoon?"

He clenched his teeth. "What do you want?"

"Oh, just some help with my attorney's fees. For now."

"How much?"

False Face named a figure. Paxton managed not to gasp. "It'll take me a couple of days to get that much capital together. I don't have that much in my accounts." He'd had it two months ago, but this wasn't the first time that False Face had demanded money from him.

"I'm feeling magnanimous. Take three," False Face replied. "And while I've got you on the phone, I was wondering about your dear friend Brucie."

Paxton tensed. "What about him?"

"Oh, just hoping that you can recall some of the little things about him? Favorite restaurants, preferred wines, taste in clubs... music... that kind of thing."

"Please," Paxton laughed bitterly. "It's not as though I ever saw him socially. Our interactions were either in the office or at various charity functions, and he usually ducked out of those. Can't help you."

There was a pause. Then, "Of course, Les. But if anything should spring to mind, you'll be sure and let me know, won't you? Holding out on me might be... costly." The menace in the voice sent a chill through Lester Paxton. When it spoke again though, it was back to its formerly jovial tones. "I'll contact you in 72 hours with instructions on where to leave the money. It should be cash and—while I detest the cliché, I can't fault the reasoning, so let's not break with cinema script traditions—small, unmarked bills. Have yourself a wonderful morning, Lester. I know mine has been exquisite thus far."

The line went dead.

As though in a daze, Paxton held the phone and stared at it for a solid five minutes before he shakily returned it to its cradle.

* * *

Barbara's office was dark. She'd turned off her monitors, lowered the black-out curtains, and extinguished the lights. The generator hummed softly, as it supplied power to other systems, but Cass found that she couldn't see her hand when she held it before her face.

"Let your eyes get used to it," Barbara said, her soft voice sounding impossibly loud in the darkness. "They will in a moment. Don't activate your night-vision lenses, whatever you do."

Cass nodded. "Won't. Barbara?" She hesitated. "Why... have? If so easy to... to... neutralize?"

"They're only easy to neutralize under certain conditions and if the person doing the neutralizing is sneaky," Barbara replied. "I'm _very_ sneaky. Remember to shield your eyes when I give the command. You'll still need a little time to adjust, but you'll be prepared, so it shouldn't take you that long."

There was a bone-grating sound of metal on concrete, followed by a very human grunt. Barbara took a breath. "Climbing equipment. Whoever it is, they're scaling the building. Get into position." Cass nodded automatically, forgetting that Barbara couldn't see and moved carefully to the wall. She was glad she'd mentally mapped her route before the lights had gone out.

A moment later, Barbara heard another noise to set her teeth on edge. She knew this one, too. Years earlier, she had backed up Batman on a stake-out of the Gotham Museum of Ancient History. Catwoman had broken in, lured by an Egyptian exhibit of cat sculptures. She'd used a diamond to cut through the display case glass. Barbara frowned in annoyance. Whoever was outside was doing the same thing to her window right now.

A moment later, she heard someone fumbling with the latch. The window opened, ushering in a small breeze. The blackout curtain twitched, and a bit of daylight entered as well. It wasn't nearly enough, not with all other light sources blocked up or switched off. The curtain moved and Barbara could just make out a stocky shape, small-breasted, but definitely female. The intruder pulled something out of her belt. A bright light emanated from the device—evidently, it was a flashlight. Barbara looked down swiftly as pain stabbed her eyes. So. She wasn't using night vision lenses after all. Barbara squeezed her eyes shut. Then, in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, she said, "Nutton, Gehrig, Fruit."

Light globes descended instantly from ceiling panels and blinked on and off in a pulsating strobe. At the same time, select floor tiles rose several fractions of an inch, while others lowered. The intruder cried out, covered her eyes, and took an involuntary step. Her foot caught on the edge of one of the upraised tiles and she pitched forward.

Although she kept her eyes closed against the strobe lights, Barbara still recognized the slap-clack and sudden intake of breath, as the intruder hit the floor with the open palm of one hand and the closed fist and flashlight edge of the other. Then, from the corner, came the 'clatch' and 'thwip' of a grappling line firing from its launcher. The intruder cursed and Barbara could hear the sounds of a struggle. A scuff on the floor, and a slight form sprang from the shadows as Cass moved in to subdue her quarry. Then there were more gasps, grunts, and stifled cries as the two rolled over and over, each fighting for the upper hand. Finally, there was the 'thunk' of a skull banging into the floor tiles and Cass's voice snarled "Over!"

"Casaubon, Koufax, cherry," Barbara uttered the code-phrase with relief. The strobe lights switched off. The faint hum of a motor told her that the floor tiles were returning to normal, too. A moment later, the regular lighting returned—not all at once, but gradually, as though via dimmer switch.

Cass was straddling the intruder, who lay on her stomach, her wrists secured by plastic cuffs, her ankles by Cass's grappling line. As she looked about her, blinking, her lips curled into a snarl. "You," she seethed, as she fought against her restraints, "are _not_ Catwoman."

Behind her glasses, Barbara's eyes widened for the barest instant as she recognized the captive. Then they returned to normal. "Red Claw," she said flatly. "I hadn't realized that you were back in town."

* * *

Helena wasn't eating. It was all Selina could do to coax a few spoonfuls of broth into her. At first, she thought that it was the salt content—powdered soup mixes were notorious for that—but diluting it with water made almost no difference.

She went online and reassured herself that Helena's symptoms fell well within the range of common childhood complaints—unpleasant, but hardly cause for alarm. She wasn't alarmed, but she was definitely upset to see her daughter suffering. And to think that yesterday, she'd been wishing that Helena would be less rambunctious! Now, what she wouldn't give to be chasing her daughter away from Bruce's equipment, while she fled, laughing on chubby legs.

She placed a cool hand on Helena's forehead and sighed. The fever was back up again. It had seemed lower a few hours ago. She kissed the little girl's forehead and would have withdrawn, but a small voice stayed her.

"Mama? Mama, stay."

She smiled. "Of course, Mama will stay, Helena," she said tenderly, taking a seat next to the cot and running a gentle hand through the dark curls, so much like her own. Still smiling, she began to sing one of Helena's favorite songs—a song that, only yesterday, she had replayed so many times that she had been ready to scream, except that had she balked, it would have set her daughter to screaming instead.

_The wheels on the bus go round and round,_

_Round and round,_

_Round and round._

_The wheels on the bus go round and round..._

* * *

It was hard to believe that two weeks had passed so quickly, but Monday afternoon found Bruce reporting to the parade grounds with the rest of his class instead the stables. He'd be going back later; Brenner still wasn't as comfortable in the saddle as he should be and he'd asked Bruce for extra coaching. Tired as Bruce was, he found it hard to deny someone genuinely committed to improvement. He told himself that was the only reason. Brenner's willingness to stand by him when so many others did not had absolutely no bearing on his decision. He wasn't helping Brenner out of gratitude or a sense of indebtedness. It was simply the right thing to do.

"Let's go, Wayne! You don't have a horse to do your running for you now! Pick up the pace!" Craigie roared.

And Bruce gave a mental sigh and focused on the course ahead in time to register Laramie moving to block his advance and compensate.

"Cadet Laramie! If you got time for fancy moves, you can work another lap in! Keep going! In fact... all of you can add an extra lap, thanks to your wiseass classmate. Move! And if you've got breath to groan, you're not moving fast enough!"

There were no groans, but Bruce couldn't help but spot a few dark looks from those of his classmates rounding the curve of the track ahead. They were not aimed at him. His lips twitched. Craigie might be a slave-driver, but he was also a fair man. Bruce appreciated that.

He increased his speed slightly and ran on.

* * *

He'd gotten too used to getting his best work done underground. His mind was clearer, his wits sharper, and concentration greater in the cave than in the office (he imagined there was some place set aside for the President Emeritus at PMWE, even if he hadn't bothered to confirm its existence), the study, or the library. So, with a test in warrant procedures the next day, it was only natural for Bruce to head downstairs after supper, textbooks and notes in hand.

A tone sounded from one of his consoles and he frowned. He knew the location, but... With a sigh, he accepted the call. "This is too risky," he said sharply as Selina's face appeared on the vid-screen. I'm sure Barbara told you that my systems may have been compromised. We're still trying to figure out how much our intruder discovered, but if someone is listening in on this channel..." He broke off as he registered the fear in Selina's eyes. "What's wrong?"

Selina bit her lip. "Helena's fever is up again," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I keep telling myself that it's nothing. Children get fevers all the time and they can spike and usually, there's nothing to worry about..."

Bruce closed his eyes. "...but you think there is," he finished.

"I don't know if there is!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking online and going back and forth between thinking it's nothing and thinking it's serious. You've got some old medical textbooks in the sickbay area, too, and they aren't much better. I..."

"I know," Bruce said heavily. "It... it sounds trite, but don't panic." His mind drifted back a few short months to when he and Dick had _both_ panicked, convinced that Dick had contracted smallpox in a bioweapons lab. It had turned out to be a case of flu, combined with an allergic reaction that had caused him to break out in hives.

"I'm trying not to," Selina said, attempting a smile. On the vid-screen, Bruce could see that her fingers were laced tightly together. "Toddlers do get sick and high fevers can be scary, but they're often not that serious. But..."

Bruce drew in his breath. "But you're worried that it might be."

"Yes."

He nodded soberly. "All right. Barbara had a situation earlier. Cass was followed when she left the manor. When she realized it, she led her shadow directly to Barbara." His lips twitched. "More precisely, she led her shadow directly to Barbara's security systems."

Despite her worry, Selina replied with a throaty chuckle. "I could almost feel sorry for the guy."

"Woman," Bruce corrected. "Red Claw."

The sound that escaped from Selina's lips this time sounded remarkably like a hiss. "You're not serious."

"I am," Bruce replied. "Red Claw. And before this, it was Intergang. We don't know who my intruder was working for. And meanwhile..." His jaw set. "All right. I'm getting the two of you out of Gotham." Selina opened her mouth to speak, but Bruce held up a warning hand. "Please. Hear me out. Dick believes he was shadowed the other night. Cass knows she was today. When I passed a warning to Tim, he mentioned that someone might have been watching the Titans several nights ago. This isn't going to stop. Sooner or later, one of us _is_ going to slip up. And with Helena ill..." Bruce sighed. "She _should_ see a doctor. If it turns out to be nothing, at least we'll know and we can relax. And if there's a prescription that she can take to recover more quickly, I'm not about to play games with her health."

Selina nodded. Neither of them needed to mention the possibility that Helena's condition could be more serious. "How are we going to leave?" she asked. "And where should we go?"

For the first time since he'd answered the vid-call, Bruce smiled. "I'll make the arrangements, but in reverse order, the answers to your questions are: Central City... or possibly Keystone... and _very_ quickly."

* * *

Bruce sank back against his cushioned swivel chair and felt a degree of relaxation he hadn't felt since he'd learned of Helena's illness. "Thank you, Barry," he said. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"Actually," Barry said, "I think I do. Admitting gratitude has never been something that comes easy for you." He must have realized how he made it sound, because he quickly added, "Not that you don't show it in other ways, I mean."

Bruce shook his head. "You don't have to back-pedal, Allen. It's something I've been working on." He reached over to the small table where a carafe of coffee sat on a burner. He poured himself a cup and tried not to make a face at the sour taste. It scalded his tongue on the way down, too. Barry laughed.

"You should try a thermos," he advised. "Or... I've seen someone at the station use these stainless steel coffee beans—"

"I'm familiar with them," Bruce said tersely. "One day, when I have the time. When should I advise Selina to expect you?" He braced himself and took another sip. It went down a bit better, this time—no doubt in part because he couldn't get the full effect of the flavor with a burned tongue.

Barry considered. "Well, Wally is getting the spare bedroom ready. Well. He doesn't have a spare bedroom, but I'm sure that either Jai or Iris will be happy to give up their room and sleep on the fold-out couch. Eventually." He smiled. "Meanwhile, Linda's calling the kids' pediatrician to set up an appointment for Helena. I figure... two, maybe three hours, just so that everything will be prepared for them when I drop them off on Wally's doorstep."

Bruce smiled. "I'll let Selina know." He frowned then. Alfred would have known the perfect gesture of appreciation. He would also have sent it with a thoughtful note that required nothing more than Bruce's signature to be dispatched on its way. For the first time, Bruce wondered whether it might have been better if Alfred hadn't concealed his shortcomings quite so effectively on that front.

"Bruce? Is something wrong?"

Bruce jerked out of his reverie. "No. Thanks again, Barry. I'll be in touch."

Maybe Dick would have some insights about an appropriate gift for the Wests...

* * *

Wally was playing Go Fish with the twins in the kitchen when he heard the key in the front door. "...Really can't thank you enough," Selina was saying. "I just feel so—"

Linda cut her off with a laugh. "Please. I would have been worried, too, in your place. At least now you _know_ it's not serious."

The two women came into the kitchen. Selina was holding an awake, but clearly groggy, Helena. Wally smiled. "Everything's okay?"

Selina nodded. "Doc says it's an RSV infection. Not usually serious in and of itself, though it can sometimes lead to worse things. I've got a prescription for something that's supposed to help with that, and she should be back to her sweet self," she kissed Helena's forehead, "in about a week, week and a half, maximum."

Jai looked up from the game. "What's an RSV infection?"

"Something a lot of kids get before the age of two," Selina smiled. "It's not fun and it is contagious, mind you, but in most people, it's pretty much like getting a really bad cold."

Linda grinned. "So no hugging and kissing Helena in a shameless ploy to miss a few days of school, because it's not going to work."

Jai made a face. "Darn!"

Selina shook her head. "Sorry, Jai. It just seems like a lousy way to pay you back for giving up your room to us. Thanks for that."

"Aw, it's okay," Jai said, looking back down at his cards. "I get to sleep in the TV room, so I..." he caught his father's eye and rethought what he'd been about to say. "So I probably get to stay up late, because I won't get to sleep until everyone's done watching for the night."

Wally grinned. "Nice try, sport, but we'll be switching off the set at nine so you can get to bed on time."

Iris stuck out her tongue at Jai. Jai sighed. "Great."

"How's that current events project coming, Iris?" Linda asked. "Did you find what you needed?"

Iris nodded.

"Did you find it somewhere other than Wonkipedia?"

"Um..."

Linda put her hands on her hips. "Iris!"

"It's not like the teacher's going to check!" Iris snapped. "Or care," she muttered.

Linda bristled. " _I_ care." She shook her head. "Let's go over it together." She looked at Selina.

Selina grinned. "I think we're just going to settle in. Don't worry about us."

Wally rose from the table and picked up the two small suitcases that Linda had brought in the front door. "Let me take these up for you. You've got your hands full."

Selina lowered her eyes demurely. "Why, thank you, kind sir," she said, affecting a sultry southern accent. She glanced at Linda. "I'd hang on to this one, if I were you."

Linda chuckled. "That's sort of my plan."

* * *

Bruce had stopped off at a Sundollars on the way home. Too many early mornings, extended afternoons, and long evenings studying were taking their toll and he felt more confident about the drive back to the manor with 20 ounces of freshly-brewed Arabica coffee in the cup-holder next to him. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper for much of the way home, giving him ample time to indulge. Even so, he was only about three-quarters finished by the time he drove into the manor's garage.

Despite the chemical assistance, Bruce doubted he'd have much difficulty sleeping tonight. He just hoped he'd be able to review his notes properly before he turned in.

Jim was waiting for him on the sofa in the front hallway. "I keep telling you," he said, gesturing toward the cup Bruce held, containing the last of the now-tepid coffee, "if you're looking for a buzz—and I know that's the only reason you'd buy a cup for the road, not to mention that it's a time-honored practice among commuting GCPA cadets—the supermarket stuff is stronger and cheaper."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Has Dick mentioned some change in my finances to you that he's been keeping from me?" he asked. "Because one, I didn't care to brew my own inside campus, and two, I think my budget can handle the occasional Sundollars."

"It's the principle," Jim groused. "Why splurge when you don't have to?" He motioned to the sofa. "Have a seat."

Bruce complied, his shoulders tensing almost automatically. "What's wrong?"

Jim pressed his lips together thinly and pushed them in and out. "My contact at Fourteenth Precinct called. This is off the record, you understand. The media doesn't know yet. They won't know unless a suspect is arrested and charged; maybe not even then, though it'll likely come out at trial."

"Jim." Bruce frowned. "You're babbling." He rested one hand on the ebony wood of the sofa arm.

"I am, aren't I?" Jim admitted with a sigh. "Fine. I guess there's no point in telling you not to get upset." He took a deep breath. "They're done analyzing the remains of the car Selina was driving. The bomb that destroyed it is of a variety favored by Intergang." He stole a sidelong glance at Bruce. Bruce said nothing, but a muscle twitched furiously in his jaw and his grip on the sofa arm tightened.

"Is there more?"

Jim nodded. "Those gunmen your boys apprehended in the subway? The ones you told me were right on Selina's doorstep before Barbara found her a new spot? Well, that happened in Fifth Precinct. I have a friend there, too. When they made their phone calls, they were to various numbers associated with the firm of Dale, McFarlane, and Wong."

Bruce's frown deepened. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Not necessarily," Jim admitted. "It didn't to me until my contact spelled it out. However, I think you should probably give your friend, Clark, a call. He should be able to confirm what I was told. Specifically, when Intergang members are arrested, in many instances, the cases don't make it to court. On the rare occasions when they do, Dale, McFarlane, and Wong is almost invariably tasked with handling the defense. You might want to confirm it with Clark, but my contact believes that the firm handles precious little business that isn't in some way connected to that particular organization."

The sofa arm creaked.

"Bruce?"

Bruce's knuckles whitened on the wood. "I ran Intergang out of Gotham years ago," he gritted through clenched teeth. "If your source is correct, if they think that Gotham is now ripe for a takeover," his voice rose and his words tumbled out faster and gained in intensity, "if they think that they can warn me away by making an attempt on those who are close to me... they will live to learn otherwise."


	37. 36: Part of the Gig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: Superman's abilities have been inconsistently portrayed over the years. I apologize for any liberties taken with his "super senses"; I haven't been able to confirm whether they are still part of his current power set. If they're canonically stronger than I've depicted them here, I guess we can chalk it up to his not being fully recovered from his trip through the red sun in Final Crisis (which takes place only about a year or so prior to the opening of _Unrehearsable_ ).
> 
> A/N: "Shine" written by Lee Hall and Elton John. Performed by the original cast on the _Billy Elliot_ soundtrack album (Decca, 2006).

_You might be feeling lousy_  
You might be feeling blue  
A little apprehensive  
A minor touch of flu  
They couldn't give a monkey's cuss  
They couldn't give a fig  
Come on son get over it  
It's all part of the gig 

— _Lee Hall, Elton John, "Shine"_

**Chapter 36—Part of the Gig**

Until that precise moment, Bruce would have sworn that his temper was completely under control. He had endured a thousand daily indignities in Arkham with barely a flicker of anger. (Therapy had been different. Then, his doctors had been deliberately goading him, but even though they had, on occasion, gotten under his skin, they had not provoked him to unbridled rage.) Since leaving Arkham, he had endured snubs from society acquaintances and business associates. He had swallowed his humiliation. He had accepted the intrusions on his privacy and allowed Alex and Krait to inspect the manor, biting back his protests. He had allowed himself to be picked apart, both before entering the academy and while attending. He had swallowed it all and faced it stoically—or, at least, with more equanimity than most would have assumed possible. At this moment, though, it was all he could do not to run downstairs to retrieve a carefully-protected lead-lined box and overnight it to the individual on the other end of the telephone.

"Bruce," Clark's voice was affable but firm. "I've dealt with Intergang before. I'll deal with them now."

"I fight my own battles, Kent," Bruce snapped into the receiver. Clark was supposed to know that. Bruce had only made this call to demonstrate to Jim that his friends knew that he could handle the situation... only Clark wasn't following the script.

"Which is why you're asking for my help," the alien countered.

 _The lead-lined box was in the third safe on the left in the trophy room. The combination was 45...9..._ "I am giving you the opportunity to share your information with me, because Oracle already has enough to do, and I was hoping to spare her another task. If you're going to start setting conditions, I'll rethink that decision."

"Bruce, if I were to ask you for advice because the Joker was wreaking havoc in Metropolis and you wanted to get involved, I'd fly you here in a heartbeat. Intergang is one of my headaches. They don't have to be one of yours—not exclusively."

"They've made at least two attempts to capture or kill two people who are close to me—one of whom is a toddler," Bruce reminded him. "I want them."

"I know. That's why I want to be involved." Clark's voice was still calm, but there was steel behind it now. "You, of all people, know what happens when emotions run high. Everything you've said until now tells me that you shouldn't do this alone." There was a pause. "Should you be doing it at all? In your current situation?"

 _45-9-27-19-38._ Bruce mentally recited the combination. "That isn't your concern."

"No," Clark shot back. "But it will be Selina's."

"What?"

"Do you honestly believe that she'll be impressed by your going back to Arkham for violating your probation? Bruce, you've just gotten her out of Gotham and under the protection of two highly-competent... call them bodyguards. Come to think of it, Jai and Iris could probably handle things in a pinch, too, so make that four. Right now, it's a temporary separation. You know Selina better than anyone, Bruce. How do you think she'll react when she finds out that you destroyed everything you've been building toward for the last eight months?"

"She'll be alive."

"She's alive now. And still on speaking terms with you. Bruce... sometimes, you don't have to push people away to protect them. Either you trust Selina to handle herself... or you don't. And if you don't," Clark paused for a moment. Bruce suspected it was solely for effect. "If you don't, since she _has_ been linked with you before, how safe do you think she'll be once you're locked up again?"

It was unbelievable how long thirty seconds could stretch when they were consumed by dead silence. Clark waited for forty before he ventured, "Bruce? Are you still there?"

Sixteen more seconds passed. Then, "Damn you, Kent. Fine. Come _alone_. One hour. No costume." Bruce slammed down the receiver, half-wishing that it was constructed of something flimsy enough to crack, but WayneTech made quality products.

In Metropolis, Clark smiled despite himself. As much as he tried to tell himself that he wasn't invested in winning an argument, when it came to Bruce, it happened so rarely that he couldn't completely suppress a surge of satisfaction. Still, despite losing this round, it was just like Bruce to still insist on dictating the terms! It was funny, Clark reflected, but somehow, there seemed to be something inherently right about that...

* * *

"So, that's that," Wally finished. "Helena's sleeping right now and Linda and Selina are chatting in the kitchen. Iris is finishing up her homework and Jai..." Wally smiled. "He's in the den hoping I'll think he's asleep, when he's really snuck over to the computer to play Civilization." He shrugged. "His grades are decent and he didn't complain about tidying up his room for company. I'll give him another half hour and then I'll go check on him, making sure I make enough noise walking down the hall."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "You've mellowed."

"Having kids does that to you," Wally said mildly. "Let me rephrase. Having small kids does that to you. Or haven't you talked to Bruce lately?"

"Yeah," Dick grinned. "And you're right. Bruce was a lot more... easy-going, I guess, when I was a kid. Maybe because I thought he hung the moon and he didn't want me to find out differently."

"So what happened?"

"Part of growing up means finding out differently," Dick sighed. "There's probably a bit more to it than that." His voice turned thoughtful. "I mean, when you think about it... I don't think Bruce ever did. Find out differently, I mean. He was only eight when his parents were murdered. That's still a point when kids think their parents can do no wrong." He shook his head. "Man, no wonder he couldn't deal when I started questioning him. He didn't have his past experiences to fall back on... not really. He left Gotham at fifteen, thereby avoiding years of fights with Alfred..."

Wally nodded. "And, no offense, but Alfred always had that reserve. I mean, when you and Bruce didn't see eye to eye, it really was a kid struggling with his father. But Bruce and Alfred? Granted, I didn't usually get the chance to see them interact, but it didn't feel like the same vibe to me."

"It wasn't," Dick agreed. "Alfred..." he frowned, trying to find the right words. "Alfred loved Bruce like a son. Same with me. Same with Jason and Tim, I'm pretty sure. But when I first arrived at the manor, he was very... stiff. Proper. Heck, you called it: reserved. And from what I've gathered, Bruce wasn't really the kind of kid to see that kind of attitude as a challenge. Thinking back, maybe Bruce wasn't the only one who loosened up around me. Or maybe, by the time Alfred learned how, Bruce was already..." He sighed. "Anyway."

"Yeah. You and Barbara ought to get down here sometime," Wally said, changing the subject. "Keystone's changed a bit in the last few years. Especially the downtown core. It's not as..."

"Boring?" Dick grinned.

"Sedate."

"Like I said—boring."

"Easy to pass judgment from so far east," Wally countered. "Seriously, you're way overdue for a visit."

Dick sighed. "Maybe in the summer. After the hearing. For now, though—"

A loud crash followed quickly by an angry wail interrupted them. Wally glanced quickly over his shoulder. "I'd better see what that was," he said. "I'll call you later."

"Sure."

After the call ended, Dick leaned back, closed his eyes and smiled. Sometimes, he reflected, a person could be too close to a situation to see it clearly. Sometimes it took an outsider to lend perspective.

* * *

Dick was going over reports at the office the next day when Sal Fiorini stepped into his office. "Do you have a moment?" he asked.

Dick looked up from his monitor. "Sure. What's up?"

"Do you have any experience in teaching or training?"

Dick blinked. "Well... nothing I could put on a résumé, you understand."

Sal smiled. "Am I correct in taking that as a 'yes'? In other words, if I were to ask you to bring our quality assurance team and trainers up to speed on your new security protocols, could you do it?"

"Uh... sure," Dick said faintly. "I guess so."

Sal shook his head. "You're going to need to sound a lot more confident. Modesty is a good thing, but not when it's carried to the point that it calls your knowledge and competence into question. We both know that your systems work. The only question is whether you can explain them to laypeople and persuade them that any minor inconveniences pale when compared to the benefits of the new setup."

Dick frowned. "Have people been complaining?"

"Not officially," Sal replied. "Not in Gotham. I'm sure you can understand, though," he continued, "that the friendly rivalry between Gotham and Metropolis can be a lot less friendly when the perception is that some Gotham hotshot—whom many of them have never met—is trying to make a good impression with the top brass and changing things for the sake of changing them. Now, we both know that's not the case. Unfortunately, the Metropolis office doesn't."

Dick was still frowning, even as he nodded slowly. "I see."

"If you're amenable, I'd like to send you out there for a few days. As I said, the primary reason would be to explain the new system and walk the appropriate personnel through it. Right now, all they have is a handbook outlining the new security procedures, but nobody has sat them down to explain why it's all necessary—because the trainers haven't yet been trained on them yet. I'd like you to do that, but I'd like you to get to know some of the people in that office. I'd also like them to get to know you." He smiled. "It never hurts to have a few contacts in different departments who can help speed your requests through the right channels."

"Sounds good," Dick nodded again. "When would you want me to go?"

Sal's smile broadened. "I'll need to verify a few things before I can answer that, but it should be fairly soon. I'll get back to you."

* * *

Bruce hated it when Clark used his heat vision to warm up his coffee. "I can pour you a fresh cup," he pointed out testily.

Clark took a sip of his now piping-hot coffee. "Why waste what I have? This is fine."

Bruce shook his head. "It's not fine. There is a marked degradation in taste, which you, for one, ought to recognize."

Clark shook his head. "It's really more my sense of smell that's super-keen, and this smells all right to me. It's still a cut above what the Metropolis PD serves when they invite my help on a case, and I drink that to be polite."

Bruce sighed. "Just try not to melt the design on the mug," he muttered, giving in.

"Anyway," Clark said, nodding in acknowledgment and setting the mug back down on the kitchen table, "that's the extent of what I know. I can definitely talk to some of my Intergang contacts in Metropolis and see whether anyone sanctioned the attack or whether someone overstepped their authority. They like to police that kind of thing themselves, so that just might solve your problem for you."

Bruce's jaw clenched. "I prefer to solve my own problems."

"Even when solving them will make a bigger one for you," Clark pointed out.

Bruce scowled. Without turning around, he called, "How long have you been listening, Jim?"

Gordon walked into the kitchen. "Long enough."

"And I suppose you're on his side?"

"As far as I'm concerned," Jim said, "the only side I'm on is the one that doesn't support your ending up in a holding cell while your lawyer tries to marshal up a few convincing arguments on why you shouldn't be shipped back to Arkham post-haste." He held up a hand as Bruce tried to say something. "And don't even _try_ to tell me that you're the only person in a position to do anything about it when you're sitting across the table from..." He smiled, "...a man who proves every day that the pen—or perhaps, I should say 'keyboard'—is mightier than the sword. Or batarang," he added.

Clark lowered his eyes. "I'm not sure I'm _that_ influential."

"Oh, I think you can be," Jim peered steely-eyed over his eyeglasses. He turned to Bruce.

"I'm not going to tell you," he said slowly, "to give this a few more months and pursue it when you're done with the academy. It's not as though you'll get to decide what you investigate—if your field assignment even involves investigation. It usually wouldn't," he admitted, "although I could see some of the higher-ups pulling strings, just because when you have the necessary skills, it'd be idiotic not to use them. Plus, I don't think Intergang is likely to pull out the Trivial Pursuit board and settle in to wait for you to graduate before they make their next move." He shook his head. "I'm just going to remind you that one of your biggest... issues to work on still is your need to control every situation. I shouldn't have to point it out to you, Bruce, but this one really is out of your hands. You've done what you can to make sure that your daughter and her mother are safe. The rest? If you need to hear it, I'll say it. This isn't your fight. It's not. Not this time. You can accept that and go on... or you can deny it and let it eat you up or do something reckless and stupid and hope it's not so reckless and so stupid that I come to the conclusion that a true friend would have to rat you out." He met Bruce's furious stare calmly, but when he spoke again, there was more than a hint of iron in his voice. "There's a limit to how far you can push me. Don't press it—and," he added, "you can stop trying to glare me into submission. We both know you aren't about to slug me if I don't fall into line. And I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."

Bruce shook his head irritably. "There are far too many things that involve me that are 'out of my hands,'" he snarled.

"Welcome to the GCPD," Jim shot back. "Why do you _think_ I was happy to have you on-side?"

Still glowering, Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "Oracle," he said, "call them. Tonight. Nine o'clock. The cave under the manor. Everyone currently operating in Gotham—with or without my sanction." He turned off the phone and sighed.

"Happy?"

Jim shook his head. "Since when did my daughter become your secretary? You can't make your own damned phone calls?"

Bruce opened his mouth to retort that he was only taking Jim's directive to not take so much on his own shoulders to heart. Then he saw that his old friend was doing his best to suppress a smile. He sighed and took a sip of coffee.

* * *

"So," Bruce concluded, "as much as I would prefer to deal with this on my own, it's been made emphatically clear to me that such action would be ill-advised at this time." He closed his eyes and waited for the usual sarcastic comments. Instead, he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he looked up. If Cass's action was hesitant, her gaze was direct. A faint smile played on her lips. "Hard," she nodded, her approval plain.

"I wonder," Kid Devil looked down diffidently, clearly uncomfortable at making himself the center of attention, "if we've all been followed... I mean..." He glanced up at Bruce. "I... I know that a while back you had those plans in case you had to fight the rest of us. Maybe you still do, I don't know. That's not... what I mean is..." He lowered his eyes again and took a deep breath. "For you to come up with those plans, you had to observe everyone. For Intergang to have any traction here," his words were coming more easily now, "they know they've got to deal with us. We've all... most of us have been followed. What if it wasn't just about hoping we'd lead them to Catwoman? What if they also want to know what they're up against and figure out how to take us out?"

Bruce nodded. "The idea has occurred to me, as well," he admitted. He'd been interested to see whether anyone else would suggest it. "It's likely."

Kid Devil looked up cautiously, then lowered his eyes again, but not before Bruce caught his stunned smile.

"Good thought, Eddie," Tim approved. "It might be interesting to know what inroads they've already made. This could be the tip of the iceberg. It could also be a small force trying to give the illusion of being bigger than they are. Sort of the way some little dogs like to bark and growl and hope nobody notices how easy it would be to step on them. Usually, the dogs that really are big and tough tend to be more easygoing."

Ravager laughed. A few others smiled. Bruce nodded again.

"Well," Dick said, looking at Oracle's digital mask on the vid-screen, "I was going to save this until I got home, but now seems like as good a time as any: Sal Fiorini wants to send me to Metropolis in two weeks to talk to the WE branch. And no, that should not be 'PMWE', but I'll say it if I have to."

The Oracle mask blinked off and Barbara's face appeared. "How long would you be gone?"

Dick sighed. "He wants me there for three weeks, but I can probably fly home on Friday afternoons and back on Sunday evenings. Of course, if I knew anyone in Metropolis who was capable of running or flying at high speeds, I might be able to come back here to patrol after work. Oh. Hang on..." He blinked innocently at Superman. "I think I do."

Superman smiled. "I'm sure we can arrange something."

"For now," Wonder Girl said, "let's just try to be extra careful. If we are being followed, we'll need to be sure we don't lead anyone back to our HQs. Speaking of which... is this place safe?"

Bruce smiled. "A good question. The answer is 'yes'. My systems can detect any tracers, homing beacons, and the like. If any of you had come onto the premises wearing such a device, I would know. Moreover, I have a field operating that can scramble and redirect any signals transmitted from those devices. Besides," a hint of annoyance crept into his voice, "given my current situation, the manor may already be a target. If you had to lead a hostile to one of my bases of operations, this one may be the best-known, but it's also the best-defended. I considered the risk acceptable. This time."

"So," Wonder Girl nodded, "no impromptu meetings, surprise parties, or tag team racing down here without clearing it with you first. Got it."

In the past, Bruce might have glowered at the young woman's easy familiarity. Now, he simply nodded back. "Precisely."

He turned to Dick. "The Metropolis trip sounds promising. If possible, though, I would like you to see what you can learn about Intergang while you're out there."

"I figured," Dick grinned. "It's just nice to know that I can get back to Gotham on my nights off, is all."

Bruce fought not to sigh. As much as he would have preferred that Dick pursue the investigation with single-minded devotion, he had to admit that the 'two nights on, one night off' protocol seemed to be working well. And he hadn't forgotten how, even with that rule in place, the stress had been affecting Dick not so long ago. Dick didn't always do things his way but, Bruce reflected, that wasn't necessarily the failing he'd once thought it was. "Keep me informed of your findings," he said. "I will expect frequent reports."

"You'll get them."

The meeting wound up quickly after that and the others headed off. Dick was the last to leave. "I'll walk you to your car," Bruce offered.

Dick nodded. "Hey. Thanks for not trying to micromanage this one. I know it's got you rattled."

Bruce sighed. "I hadn't thought it was that obvious."

"It wasn't. But I know you." He stopped and turned around to face Bruce. "Seriously. If it were Babs instead of Selina getting targeted, I'd be a wreck. Or calling in a few favors owed to me on the other side of the law." At Bruce's raised eyebrow, he amended, "Well, no. Not really. But the temptation..."

"Yes."

Dick sighed. "Look, I know you know this, and I know you normally wouldn't, but just in case you were wondering... or reconsidering... If you ever do want to talk, you know I'm around, right?" He was unable to completely suppress the start it gave him when Bruce clapped a hand to his shoulder. He covered it with his own. "I mean it."

For a moment, he thought that Bruce might actually take him up on the offer, but all the other man said was, "Let me know when your departure date has been confirmed."

* * *

The next night, the Teen Titans found themselves patrolling the downtown core when a message from Oracle sent them racing for the university.

"It is _not_ a zombie attack," Static insisted, half-laughing. Then, more uncertainly, "...is it?"

"Hey, guys," Oracle said, "I just eavesdrop on police band. I don't investigate at street level. That's your job."

"So... what?" Dodge asked. "They're just roaming around looking for brains, brains, braiiiiiiiinnnns?"

Ravager made a disgusted noise. "If that's the case, Mikey, I don't think you've got a thing to worry about."

Dodge blinked. "Oh," he nodded. "Because I'm pretty much intangible, right?"

"Well... not exactly what I was thinking, but whatever."

"Huh?" He paused for a moment. Then his puzzled look gave way to an angry frown. "Hey!"

Ravager giggled and sped on ahead. She rounded a corner, then doubled back, her lone eye wide. "Uh... guys?"

Behind her, a crowd of students shambled forward steadily, arms stiffly outstretched. "Feed..." they croaked. "Feed... feed..."

Ravager swallowed. "Okay, Dodge. Maybe you have got a problem after all..."

* * *

Thankfully, Helena was feeling much better tonight. She'd already escaped from her bed twice, despite the hastily-installed guardrails. Although the hour was late, Selina was finding it difficult to get her to sleep. In the cave, and later in the safehouse, there had been no windows to let them know when it was day or night. And while she had been sick, Helena had slept most of the days away. So, it was understandable that at nearly midnight, she would be wide awake. Understandable, but frustrating just the same.

Still, Selina reflected, as she softly closed the door to Jai's bedroom behind her, it was a relief to have her daughter nearly back to her old self. She tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of tea.

"You look exhausted," Linda greeted her.

"I feel worse," Selina admitted, sinking into a chair across the table from her.

"It's not easy having a sick child, I know," Linda nodded. "I'm glad she's doing better."

"Me too," Selina nodded back. "As much as she runs me ragged when she's feeling well, I'd rather have that little bundle of energy any day of the week."

A loud crash came from upstairs. It was quickly followed by a high-pitched wail. "Ma-maaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Selina sucked in her breath. "I mean it," she said, pushing back her chair. "Seriously. However..."

She sped out of the kitchen, while Linda tried to suppress a smile.

* * *

"Man," Static exclaimed, as he used his electromagnetic power to immobilize the feet of the zombies at the front of the mob. Those at the rear tried to advance but were unable to break through. "Where are these things coming from?"

"Think they'll figure out that they should cut out through the side streets and circle around?" Ravager asked out of the corner of her mouth.

"Don't give them ideas," Harrier snapped.

"They're not going to get ideas," Kid Devil said. "They need brains, brains, braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiins for that."

Harrier gave him an evil look. "Don't you start."

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

Harrier's frown remained in place. "Try." He looked to each member of the team in turn. "Those... creeps were normal university students this morning. I don't know what happened to change them, but if there's any chance at reversing the process, we have to go easy on them now. They aren't responsible for their actions."

"You're kidding, right?" Ravager demanded. "Look, I'm all for protecting the innocent, but if someone's trying to kill me, they're not innocent anymore. If your sweet little puppy gets rabies, you have to have him put down. Those things?" She waved toward the horde. "They aren't as sweet." She slid her blade meaningfully into the _en garde_ position. "If they break through, they're mine."

"Um..."

Wonder Girl, hovering several feet in the air above, glanced down at the blond boy who was diffidently shuffling his feet. "Dodge?"

"I... I might be able to bring them to the Astral Plane. Maybe it'll snap them out of it. If not, Raven might have some ideas."

"What if it doesn't snap them out and something attacks them while you and Raven are trying to find a cure?" Harrier asked.

"I..."

"How about we test if it works?" Wonder Girl asked. "Dodge, grab one of them, take them back, and see if they revert to normal. If it does, you can do the rest of them. If not, you can bring them back and drop them on a rooftop or something."

Harrier frowned as he mulled the suggestion over. "That could work."

"It's not like we have many other options," Miss Martian pointed out.

Ravager sighed. "Yeah, I can take a lot of them down, but there've got to be a couple of hundred over there. I can't fight them all. None of us can, not if you're serious about going easy on them."

Harrier nodded. "Do it."

Dodge nodded. Then he vanished. He materialized at the back of the horde for a moment. From her vantage point, Wonder Girl saw him take hold of one zombie by the arm and disappear once more. He rematerialized an instant later, still holding onto the other youth. The young man's face was pale and his eyes were wide, but his jaw no longer hung slack and his arms were no longer stiff. "Wh-what happened?" he asked feebly. "Where... how...?" He closed his eyes. "What's going on?"

Miss Martian landed next to them. "I'll explain afterwards," she said gently. "Harrier...?"

Harrier smiled. "How many trips is it going to take you?"

The blond boy considered. "If Static can stick everyone to the ground for a second, I think I can do it in one."

Static hesitated. "Everyone? I..." he nodded. "Okay, but make it fast. I can't hold them for long."

"You won't have to," Dodge replied confidently.

Static licked his dry lips, took a deep breath and focused. "Done."

"Gone."

And they were.

The remaining Titans looked at the area where the students-turned-zombies had been and their jaws dropped. "Um... guys?" Ravager said slowly.

"Hey! You kids!" A police officer came charging up. "Hey, who's going to pay for that?"

They barely registered it when Dodge returned an instant later with the healed—and thoroughly disoriented—college students. They were too busy gaping at the enormous pothole in the asphalt where the former zombies had been standing a moment ago. Clearly, Dodge had teleported not only the students, but the pavement beneath their feet.

Kid Devil gulped. "Um... Harrier's the team leader," he said, clapping a hand on Tim's shoulder and shoving him forward. "He can explain."

"What's going on?" Dodge asked. He elbowed his way to the front. "Uh oh."

And Harrier squared his shoulders and advanced to speak to the cop—but not before shooting a deadly glare at both Dodge and Kid Devil.

* * *

Bruce was not normally nervous about taking tests. For one thing, in most cases, he already knew the material in greater detail than the manual supplied. In those cases where he did not, he usually spent hours reviewing his notes and corroborating them with real-life examples culled from online sources.

When it came to unarmed combat, his biggest problem was completing the assigned partner drills without grandstanding or incorporating moves from martial arts not on the syllabus. However, when it came to armed combat, Bruce found that he was still having difficulties.

"A seventy-eight is not a passing grade, Cadet," Farnham rumbled. "Neither was the eighty you got last time, nor the seventy-five the time before that. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. You need an eighty-four to pass this class. An _earned_ eighty-four. That means that if you receive an eighty-three, I will not bump you up the extra mark. I'm not going to look at how far you've come since you started, applaud you for making progress, and give you a single point that you haven't merited. Eighty-four, cadet. And eighty with a shotgun. Or you wash out and give up that little pipe dream of yours about operating in this city—with or without our blessing."

As always, Bruce stood at attention and tried to let the tongue-lashing roll off. Inside, he was seething. He didn't know whether he was angry with Farnham for needling him, at Sawyer for insisting that he put himself through this torment, or at himself—because he knew full well that it was his own fault that he was failing at this and he hated to fail at anything. No matter how he felt about guns, he needed to get past this block. Otherwise, he wouldn't be avoiding firearms because he chose to do so, but rather, because he had no choice but to do so. He refused to accept that—just as he refused to listen to the mocking voice in his head that demanded to know just who he thought he was kidding.

He was still fuming as he removed the clip from his handgun. When he turned, it was to see Brenner standing a respectful distance away. He sighed. "If you're wondering whether I'm up for another session in the paddock," he said, "I'm willing."

Brenner nodded. "Thank you, Squad Leader." Instead of turning around, though, he remained at parade rest.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Squad Leader," Brenner said, "I earned a perfect score on the pistol range today."

"Congratulations."

"I've done so consistently for the last week."

Bruce felt his jaw clench. "Is there a reason you're telling me this, Brenner?"

Brenner wiped his hands on his BDU pants—regulation wear for the firing range. "Squad Leader, I think I can help you improve your scores. Sir," he added.

He fixed the cadet with a steely stare. "You do."

Brenner swallowed hard, but stood his ground. "Yes, Sir."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his classmate that he neither needed nor wanted anyone's help. Unfortunately, saying so would be half a lie and they both knew it. He did need help.

"Respectfully, Squad Leader," Brenner added softly, "I think it would be one hell of a shame if you let this hold you back. The city's going to need you. Sir."

Both of Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "I suppose after Sgt. Farnham's speech, that my situation is now common knowledge." It might already have been, he knew. Sawyer had given that press conference weeks ago. This was the first time, though, that one of his classmates had alluded to it. He took a breath. "How long did you practice that speech, Cadet Brenner?"

Brenner flushed. "I don't know if I can call it 'practicing,' Squad Leader," he admitted, "so much as knowing I had to say something and hoping it came out right. Sir."

Bruce shook his head. "You should practice more," he said flatly. "Your delivery was too fast in some spots, too hesitant in others. And you're swallowing half your words."

A puzzled frown creased his forehead, but his voice stayed steady this time, as though he was taking Bruce's reprimand to heart. "Sorry, sir."

He sighed. "Of course, you're not offering to assist me with public speaking, are you?" His lips twitched.

A moment later, Brenner flashed him a guarded smile. "No, sir."

Bruce sighed again. "All right. Tomorrow. Before class. But if you think I'm going to let you back out of this evening's equestrian drills, you can think again."

Brenner's smile widened. "Sir. Yes, sir."

Bruce shook his head. "Hit the showers, Cadet Brenner. I'll meet you at the stables. And Brenner?" He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Thank you."

* * *

"Did you find it easier to accept an offer of help that second time?" Alex asked the next evening. "It did come right on the heels of that other matter."

"It did," Bruce acknowledged. "And yes. It was easier, though I don't think it's because I'm getting used to giving in." He leaned back against the cushioned leather armchair that smelled faintly of saddle soap. Or perhaps, after spending weeks in the stables, he was simply imagining the smell.

Alex steepled his fingers. "Oh?"

"In the first case, I'm being ordered to step aside, when... yes, I do want to be involved. I realize that doing so is not in my best interests, but there is a part of me that doesn't care." He fixed Alex with a level gaze. "I'm no fool. I'm not going to throw away what I've been working for all these months. I have to accept outside help. You'll pardon me if I'm less than cheerful about it."

"No," Alex said smiling, "no, I think that's pretty understandable. "And the second case?"

"In the second case," Bruce said, "I..." It was warmer than he would have liked in the office. When he leaned forward, his shirt stuck to his back and he fought the urge to reach behind him and pull the fabric away from his skin. "I have the freedom to turn down the offer. And don't think I wasn't tempted. I prefer to succeed—or fail—on my own, as a rule."

"Yes, I've noticed that," Alex said mildly. "What stopped you?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I've been succeeding on my own to a point. However, unlike most of the other skills I've acquired, this one has a deadline. I need to have mastered this skill by graduation. I'm already more than halfway through the program and I seem to have... hit a plateau. I'm close," he added, his voice gaining in intensity as it dropped in volume. "Despite my distaste for the skill, I learned it once and I need to learn it again. Cadet Brenner was one of the first members of the class to reach the required level of accuracy with both weapons. That doesn't necessarily make him a good tutor, but I don't think I'm going to complete the program on schedule without some assistance. And he is offering. And..."

"And?"

Bruce smiled and let out a breath with a sigh. "And I know that it galled him initially to approach me for help with mounted parade drills, but he did so because he was determined to get the skills he needed to pass the course—and mounted drills aren't compulsory. He could have gone back to the regular drills. Instead he asked for help and he's made steady improvement. I respect that." Bruce pursed his lips. Then his face relaxed in a bland smile, similar to the ones he had flashed at social events in times gone by. "I suppose," he said lightly, "if I can respect a person's asking for help when they're in danger of lagging behind, I don't have much reason to be embarrassed about needing to ask for it myself. If the only thing holding me back is pride..." he shook his head, sobering once more, "...I've been down that road too many times in the past. It's time to try a different path."

* * *

"And, in other news," the television reporter's voice continued breezily, "local authorities are still trying to determine whether the university campus was indeed the site of a zombie attack last night. While there were several eyewitnesses..."

Paxton turned off the set and shook his head. Zombies. Sometimes, it felt like he encountered them every day: mindless drones blocking his path, draining his energy, oblivious to the bigger picture.

He checked his watch. Derek was late. Paxton wondered what could be keeping his young protégé. He was looking forward to a report on the state of affairs at PMWE, half hoping that the place was going to pot without him. If only the stock market pages would bear out that theory, but thus far, they weren't.

There was a measured rap on his front door. Paxton smiled. It was about time. He got up from his desk chair and strode to the vestibule. "What kept...?" His question died on his lips.

The man at the door was not Derek. He had gray skin, matted hair, a slack jaw, and a glazed look in his eyes. He smelled of damp clay and old refuse.

The zombie clapped an ice cold hand to Paxton's shoulder and stooped so that their eyes met. Rancid breath assaulted Paxton as the zombie spoke.

" _Come..."_


	38. 37. Frantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta. "Zombie Delight" written by Charles Austin, Graeme Campbell, Afie Jurvanen, and Richard Terfry. Recorded by Buck 65 on his 20 Odd Years album (WEA, 2011).
> 
> A/N: In the "Officer Down" story, Gordon states that he's been a cop for over twenty years when he announces his retirement. That would seem to suggest that, going by his apparent age at retirement, he'd had some other career prior to joining the police force.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Discussion of torture; descriptions of torture implements; non-graphic torture; psychological torture. No blood, no gore, just one nasty villain with a twisted imagination and a captive audience.

_Zombie Delight Zombie Delight  
Zombies are coming to get'cha tonight_

_Why is this happening?_  
 _People are frantic._  
 _The military's overwhelmed_  
 _Widespread panic._

— _Charles Austin, Graeme Campbell, Afie Jurnaven, Richard Terfry, "Zombie Delight"_

**Chapter 37—Frantic**

Paxton took a step backwards and tried to duck back into his mansion. He'd given Thackeray the evening off, not wanting the butler within earshot while he and Derek discussed strategy. Stupid of him. He'd never had reason to doubt the man's loyalty. If Thackeray were here, then _he_ would have answered the door and found a zombie on the doorstep. He would have been the one intercepted...

...Unless he'd greeted the zombie properly and ushered it into the den with a promise to return with a pot of tea, as he would any other visitor. It passed fleetingly through Paxton's mind that Thackeray might have done exactly that, had he been here now.

He was about to slam the door when the zombie stuck one foot over the threshold. "Come," it repeated hollowly.

Paxton stomped on the monster's instep as hard as he could. It appeared unfazed and even a bit puzzled. "Come."

With an inarticulate cry, Paxton raced into the mansion and up the curving maple staircase to the second floor, his open palm slapping the banister as he ran. He pulled open a door, dashed into one of the spare bedrooms, and locked the door behind him. Then he jammed a chair under the knob. Was that enough? He spied the cedar closet opened its door and jumped inside. He had the presence of mind to test the inside knob and ensure that the door wouldn't lock behind him and trap him before pulling it shut. He was safe. For the moment. Maybe that creature would give up.

There was a jiggling sound from the outer room. It was trying the knob. Paxton exhaled. The door was locked and barricaded. It wasn't getting inside easily.

He froze when he heard a loud thump. It was quickly followed by a second and then a third. And then he heard a splintering sound. The creature was breaking down the door. His heart was pounding in counterpoint to the thuds of fists on solid oak. It would be through in another minute. How much longer until it had the closet open? Wait... he reached into his pocket and his hand closed on his cell phone. With shaking hands, he flipped it open and punched in three digits.

And his hope drained away. The screen was dark. There was no connection. He'd forgotten to charge it.

There was a loud crack that he knew was the bedroom door giving way. A grunt and the sound of wood sliding out from under metal. The creature was dislodging the chair from under the doorknob. Paxton heard the relentless tread of flat feet on the hardwood floor and desperately grasped the cedar closet doorknob in both hands.

For all the good it did him. Despite his efforts, the knob turned and the door opened, dragging him along with it.

The zombie regarded him soberly, one hand on the outer doorknob, the other holding aloft the chair he'd used as a barricade. He waved the chair menacingly. "Come."

Defeated, Paxton hung his head and obeyed, trying not to cringe when the zombie placed a meaty hand on his shoulder.

* * *

"I saw your light," Bruce said, when Jim came to the door of the guest cottage. "Am I disturbing?"

Jim shook his head. "I was just killing time, watching an old movie on PBS while I was waiting for the news to come on." He sighed. "There's been a Humphrey Bogart marathon going on since noon. Right now? We're into the second pledge break in _Father Goose_." He smiled. "Come in. Sit down. Tell me what's on your mind." He peered at Bruce over his glasses. "And I won't ask why you're up this late when your day starts before six tomorrow morning."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't need much sleep, Jim. You know that." Jim stepped away from the door to allow him to pass inside and he did with a sigh. "And I doubt I'll sleep tonight, at any rate."

"Oh?" He made a vague gesture toward the sectional sofa in the living room. "Sit, sit. Coffee?"

Bruce shook his head. "Just because I don't expect to sleep tonight doesn't mean I need to ensure that's the case."

"I have decaf."

"Water will be fine, thanks," Bruce demurred. Under his breath, he added, "... and about as flavorful."

"I heard that," Jim rumbled, on his way into the kitchen.

"I know," Bruce called after him, making sure that his voice carried over the sound of running water.

Jim returned a moment later with a tall glass of ice water. "I'm presuming from the tap is fine?" he asked. "I've never been fond of buying bottled."

"There's a spring in the woods near the west boundary," Bruce nodded. "That's the water flowing through your pipes. Perfectly safe." He took a sip and smiled. "And far better than decaf."

Jim smiled back. "Did you want to tell me why you stopped by?"

Bruce shook his head. "There isn't really anything to tell. I just didn't feel like going back to the manor so soon."

"Ah."

When Bruce said nothing further, Jim smiled and picked up a crossword puzzle magazine from the sofa cushion next to him. Several minutes dragged by before Bruce spoke again.

"And one of my classmates has offered to help me bring my range scores up."

"Ah."

"Yes."

Jim waited.

Bruce took another sip. Then he rested the glass on his knee, waiting until he felt the condensation seep through the fabric of his pants. Finally, he looked up with worried eyes. "Have I been... sabotaging myself?" he asked softly. "Deliberately holding back because the idea of... of becoming proficient with a firearm turns my stomach?"

Jim considered. "There is that," he admitted. "But there's another factor in play, too." He smiled. "Two, actually. You hate to lose and you hate to quit." His lips twitched. "Of course, you're stubborn, too, but that trait can work for you or against you, depending on which side of the fence it drops. Since you haven't withdrawn from the academy yet, I'll presume it's strengthening your resolve to stick with the program."

Bruce leaned into the sofa. "How many years were you a cop?" he asked, tabling the subject.

Jim regarded him for a moment. "Twenty-three. I joined the army out of high school. Mostly because I wasn't sure what to do with my life. See, my father was a cop and his before him. And my brother. It just felt like everyone and everything was pushing me in that direction and I didn't know if it was something I wanted or something I was getting into because it felt as if I _should_ want it, if you take my meaning. So I joined the army to see if I could figure out where I was headed. I never saw any military action, in case you were wondering. I was a couple of years too late for Vietnam and a couple of years too early for Honduras. In retrospect, I was lucky. I ended up in Puerto Rico—Fort Buchanan. No real danger, no ever-present threat. It just happens that the fort is strategically important, so there have to be some troops there to guard it. I ended up a supply clerk. Being all of eighteen at the time, I admit to being bored. At first. By the time my first two-year stint was up, I was hot to re-enlist. When I did, I found myself at Torii Station, Okinawa for the next two years, tracking cargo distribution. Sure, it was more paperwork... but it was paperwork half a world away from everything else I knew, so it was more exciting." His lips twitched. "For the first week, anyway. Still, it was a good experience—almost good enough to make me sign up for a third stint, even."

Bruce regarded him curiously for a moment. "What stopped you?"

Jim sighed. "My parents were getting on in years. They didn't like the idea of my being so far away. My brother was working for a precinct in the Quad Cities area by then. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like there was more to life than paperwork." He gave a short laugh. "I admit I was a bit naïve on that score. Anyway, I let my father talk me into joining the Chicago PD, though not as a cop. Not at first. I still didn't think it was what I wanted; it's easy to slide into something when it feels like you've been drifting that way for most of your life. At the time, though, they were actively recruiting support personnel, too. I thought that was far enough removed from being a cop that I wasn't just falling into the family mold. Do you remember when you were applying and I told you about the difference between sworns and non-sworns?" He smiled. "I spent six years in dispatch. You know what that means?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of course. You... dispatched... officers to sites where crimes or disturbances transpired."

Jim shook his head. "Well... yes, of course that's the job description. But what it really means is that you get to send everyone else into potential danger while you're stuck in an office, safe and warm, wondering if everyone you ordered off is coming back in one piece. Eventually, I came to realize that I didn't like sending people out to do a job I could do myself." He let out a long breath. "I wasn't the oldest academy cadet at twenty-nine, but there were a lot of fresh-faced, wet-behind-the-ears kids in my class, I can tell you."

Bruce smiled. "I can relate."

"I bet."

Bruce took a deep breath. "In those twenty-three years... do you know how many times you had to fire your gun?"

"In those twenty-three years? So, not including the pot shots I took at you to get you to stand down from murdering Joker when you thought he'd killed Elliott?" he nodded slowly, "Eight. That's counting times where I drew my gun and fired more than one bullet as a single incident."

"In twenty-three years," Bruce repeated.

"Believe it or not, it's not a routine occurrence. But it's a serious one. You'll notice I didn't have to think back or count on my fingers. I knew because something that heavy... you remember each time." He reached over and placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "The first time was six years after I joined the Chicago PD. In an incident with a direct bearing on how I ended up here in Gotham in the first place."

Bruce nodded. "Thank you."

"Anything else you want to know?"

"Not now." He looked at his watch. "Should I put the news on?"

"If you like. If you'd rather keep talking, though, I imagine I'll get the headlines online later, if I don't wait for tomorrow's paper."

"No, that's fine," Bruce smiled, picking up the remote and flipping the channel.

"...And the Teen Titans successfully neutralized an apparent zombie attack early this morning," the camera panned slowly over a large irregular crater in the road, "though not without damage to city infrastructure. It is not yet certain whether charges will be..."

Bruce sucked in his breath furiously. "Excuse me," he said, practically bolting out the door.

Once out in the open air, he whipped out his cell phone and punched in a number, gritting his teeth when Tim's voicemail message began. He waited impatiently for the tone to sound. "We need to talk," he ground out when it finally did. "Call me."

* * *

Even in cold weather, fighting crime helped a person work up a good sweat. With the first day of spring less than a week away, it was already beginning to warm up in earnest. There was a ways to go before summer, of course, but the snow had finally disappeared—except for the dirty, iced-over piles that accumulated on the grass below the exhaust vents of most indoor skating arenas.

After ending patrol at 3 AM yesterday and going out to patrol again barely fifteen hours later, and _then_ spending a good part of the night running through Robinson Park, chasing after a new crime outfit that called themselves the Royal Flush Gang, Tim could barely wait to be back at the Teen Titans' base. It had showers. More to the point, it had beds. One of them was calling out to him right now.

He emerged from his shower feeling refreshed and toweling his hair dry. That was when he noticed the base of his cordless phone flashing "01". He sighed. Whoever it was, it was probably too late to call them back. Still, the message might be important. He keyed in his code and played back the lone message.

The color drained from his face. He knew that tone of voice. He was in trouble. And he had a pretty good idea as to the reason why. With a pounding heart, he replaced the phone on its base. "I am so dead," he whispered.

* * *

There were no seats in the back of the windowless cube van and, therefore, no seatbelts. There was a sort of recessed latch on the inside of the locked door, which was the only thing that Paxton could find to grab onto. True, it forced him to stand throughout the journey, but it was better than sliding across the floor and banging into the walls with every twist and turn. And there _were_ twists and turns. At times, the speed bumps and potholes nearly tore the latch handle from his grasp, but he managed to hold on.

Paxton had never known zombies could drive. Hell, he'd never believed zombies existed. And the way this one was driving, Paxton doubted that it had a license. Wonderful. Maybe some cop would pull them over. And then what? What did he know about zombies that didn't come from some old Scooby Doo episode where they turned out to be bank robbers in cheesy costumes? He seemed to recall that they were cannibals and could only be killed by silver bullets... no. Wait. That was werewolves. Sunlight, staking, and garlic worked on vampires... Zombies? He shook his head. He'd spent too much time watching period dramas and not enough watching horror B-movies! Was there such a thing as a horror A-movie? he wondered idly. He'd never heard of one.

The van hit another bump and Paxton wondered when it was ever going to stop. It felt to him as though they'd been driving for hours. When they finally did stop, some ten minutes later, he wished that it would have kept moving a bit longer. Anything not to confront his captor.

The door opened and Paxton saw that they were parked in some gravel-topped lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. The sky was already growing lighter as a new morning dawned. He looked about him quickly. There was a non-descript single-story building directly ahead with a couple of straggly-looking trees, their branches still bare. A single round light over the front door provided the only additional illumination. Birds were chirping , their voices seeming much louder in the near-darkness. The zombie reached in and grabbed his arm, hauling him bodily out of the van.

"Come," it said, towing him toward the building.

* * *

There had been a time when Tim would have known exactly when to phone and which number to call if he wanted to reach Bruce's voice mail.

Between nine and five, Monday to Friday? His direct line at WE: he never answered it, preferring to screen calls through his secretary. If anyone did happen to call the direct line, Bruce would assume it was either a wrong number or some pushy client, executive, or sales rep who had somehow found out how to reach him. He did check those messages, but usually not right away.

Between five and twilight? (Or in winter, between five and six?) Cell phone, but only if he knew that Bruce was driving himself instead of having Alfred drive him. When he was behind the wheel, Bruce never used the phone—not even the hands-free mode—unless he was in costume. He'd admitted once that he was more easily distracted when he wasn't wearing the Bat-suit and he didn't want to risk an accident. If Alfred was doing the driving, then calling the Manor was the best bet.

After that, until about four AM, it really depended on how patrol was going. Calling the Manor meant talking to Alfred who, likely as not, would immediately say "Master Bruce asked me to transfer you directly should you call. Hold one moment, sir." Calling the Batmobile might go to voice mail—if Batman were out of the car. And Batman often muted the cowl radio if he didn't want backup, reinforcements, or second-guessing. But usually, his best bet was to fib to Oracle that he hadn't been able to reach Bruce and could she pass on the message when he checked in with her.

From four to five, calling the Manor upstairs was safest. If Bruce wasn't sleeping, he was in the Cave reviewing the night's work or getting patched up. And Alfred was either doing the patching or asleep with the ringer turned down.

From five to nine AM? Call the cave with a message about how you didn't want to wake anybody.

Yes, in the old days, it had been easy.

Ever since his release from Arkham, though, Bruce had been more a morning person—a condition best chalked up to the effects of schedules and regimens. At Arkham, the lights in the cells came up at set times. Meals, therapy, privileges—when he had them—lights out... after nearly two years, his sleep cycle had adjusted. Even after his release, Bruce hadn't put forth any effort to restore the old status quo. He'd gone back to training after a bit. He'd reconnected with family and allies. He'd begun to stay up later, but he was no longer a creature of the night.

Now that Bruce was attending the academy, however, Tim never knew just when to (not!) reach him. He didn't know when Bruce might be between classes, whether he was up late studying or whether he'd turned in early and woken to study before dawn. He looked at his watch. It was a bit after two. Bruce was probably in class. He took a deep breath and called the Manor.

Bruce picked up on the second ring. "Tim."

Tim gulped. "Hi, Bruce. Staying home today?"

"When I'm expecting important calls, I have them forwarded," Bruce snapped. "Now listen. I have four minutes before my next class starts and I will not be late. Check your e-mail. It will show confirmation of a bank transfer from my account to yours. The Teen Titans will apologize to the mayor for the destruction caused and use those funds to make restitution. If the amount of the transfer does not cover all of the damage, tell me and I will send another transfer. Gotham still hasn't paid back all of the reconstruction loans extended after the No Man's Land was repealed. They don't need the added expense of collateral damage from your battles. Accidents happen. As do consequences. If you cause the former, don't shirk the latter. And next time, tell me about incidents such as this, before I see them on the evening news!"

The connection closed.

Tim looked at the phone in his sweaty hand and let out a long breath. He'd gotten off a lot easier than he'd expected on that one.

* * *

The pipe released one single drop of water every four seconds. Paxton had timed it. He was strapped into a sort of dentist's chair that rotated one quarter turn at timed intervals. The room was dank and smelled of mud and mold with a strong undercurrent of gasoline. From somewhere down the corridor, he could hear moans and cries for help, interspersed with the occasional hysterical laugh.

Currently, he was facing an iron door with a small barred window. There was a sliding panel behind that window, he knew, because at least three times per quarter-rotation, it slid back and, if he was facing it, he saw blank burning eyes—zombie eyes—checking up on him. To either side of the door were a series of hooks, from which hung a variety of knives, gouges, scalpels, branding irons, and other implements that he couldn't identify. Most were at least partially coated with a reddish brown patina that might have been rust or dried blood.

The chair turned with an ear-jarring squeal, and he found himself facing the iron maiden once more. The floor sank down a bit on this side and from the angle of the chair, he could make out a barred drain. The water from the dripping pipe rolled down to it in a sluggish rust-brown trickle. To the left of the iron maiden was a torture rack and between the two devices, a rope dangled from some kind of pulley system, which hung from a ring set in the high ceiling above. (There were more iron rings set in the walls and floor at intervals—and not just on this side of the room.) Below the rope was a heavy iron weight with a hole bored through near the top. A short chain with a shackle on each end had been threaded through it.

It seemed like an eternity before the chair turned once more. Again, he saw the long wooden trestle table with a manacle or fetter at each corner and a log of wood in the center. On a shelf that was situated at his eye level, he saw a metal device that looked a bit like a lower-case "m". There was a knob at the top, rising from between the two arches, and a horizontal bar across the bottom. Although he'd never seen anything like it before, Paxton had a strong suspicion that he was looking at thumbscrews. There were more shelves on this wall, holding mounted cases of vials and syringes. In one corner stood a large brass bull, its legs straddling a wide round planter of fired clay. A door was open in the bull's flank, revealing a hollow interior, large enough to fit a grown man into. Over the top of the planter, Paxton could see straw, with a few twigs poking through. Next to the planter was a red gas can. When the zombie had first brought him here and strapped him into the chair, Paxton had noticed that the gasoline smell was strongest here. Several hours later, he could no longer tell.

He wanted to close his eyes and keep them closed, but found himself unable to avoid looking, as the chair turned to the final wall. Here, there were two large spiked wheels. One was suspended over a water trough, the other over cruel iron spikes. Before Paxton's eyes, a rat skittered across the floor.

He tested his bonds once more, but the wide leather straps at wrists, ankles, waist, and chest refused to give in the slightest. To his right, he heard the door-panel slide back again. This time, it wasn't replaced.

Coming down the corridor, he heard footsteps. They flapped on the ground with the light tread of thin-soled slippers as they drew nearer. Sooner than expected, the chair swung him back to face the door, which opened to reveal a spindle-limbed figure clad from head to toe in burlap sacking with tufts of straw sticking out. He was holding a device that looked like a television remote.

"Good day, Mr. Paxton," the Scarecrow whispered in a voice that rustled like cornhusks in the wind as he walked into the room. "I hope that your time in my waiting area has put you in a suitable frame of mind to look upon a certain proposition of mine with a favorable eye. In medieval times, it was common for the inquisitors to show their clients what lay in store for them if they proved uncooperative. In many cases," he chortled, "the fear of what awaited if they did not accede to what was requested of them was all it took to make them amenable."

He walked into the room, two zombies at his heels. "Of course," he said, "should you refuse my proposition..."

Even knowing that it was futile, Paxton strained against his bonds. "What?" he blustered. "You'll turn me into one of them?" He jerked his head toward the zombie on Scarecrow's left.

Scarecrow sniffed. "Them? Hardly. Oh, they have their uses, I grant you. They are most adept at instilling fear in the masses. Their weakness lies," he sighed, "in their inability to feel fear themselves. So... here I am, with a room full of toys and they're all wasted on my current companions. If I were to order them, they'd strap themselves into my... devices without flinching or uttering a word of protest. I suppose they might scream, if so ordered or if their pain were too great, but they wouldn't fear undergoing the experience again." He leaned over Paxton, drawing so close that the straws poking out from under his sack of a mask tickled the captive businessman's forehead. "Pain is just a means to an end, you see. And that end, my dear Mr. Paxton, is where you come in. I have two roles I need filled. First, I need a source of information with regard to the inner workings of PMWE. Pass codes, schedules, known allergies of various staff members... things you must have learned during your years of distinguished service at those offices. Second," he chortled, "I need an action figure for my playsets." He hit a button on the remote and the chair turned to the right. Instead of remaining in place, it rolled directly toward the iron maiden, stopping several inches away. Up close, Paxton could smell something rank and metallic. The chair began to roll sideways, so that Paxton was facing the various devices and instruments at all times as it made a slow circuit of the room, lingering in front of each device, rolling close enough that Paxton could have reached out and touched it, were his hands not constrained. Finally, the chair returned to its initial position in the center and Scarecrow continued as though there had been no interruption. "If you won't assist me with my research," he went on, "I suppose you'll just have to provide the..." he chortled softly, "...entertainment."

Paxton swallowed hard.

Scarecrow patted his shoulder. "I believe we'll start with some of the easier games and work our way up. Should I introduce you to the more advanced tools too early in our sessions, there'll be nothing left to anticipate down the road." A hint of malice crept into his tone as he added, "And I do want you to anticipate everything I have planned for you." He strode behind the chair and Paxton heard something being taken down from a shelf. "First, though," he continued, "it is absolutely crucial that I get an idea of how much fun you can endure at one sitting. Because I can assure you, Mr. Paxton," he said, crossing back in front of him and dangling a syringe tauntingly, "if you won't perform the tasks I have in mind for you, I intend to play with you for a _very_ long time. This means I'll need to ensure that your fear reaction remains below the point where it triggers a heart attack or some other fatal response." He leaned down and bent closer until only a few inches remained between their foreheads. "At least, until I grow bored with you. Once that happens, all bets are off, so I hope you'll make an effort to be entertaining, hmm?"

He tried to cringe away from the needle, as Scarecrow drew back slightly. The masked man delicately unfastened Paxton's cufflink and rolled his sleeve up to the elbow.

"This is just a sedative," Scarecrow said soothingly. "If I'm to do this properly, I need to take your vital signs when you're relaxed, and I'll admit that your experiences today have hardly been conducive to relaxation. This injection will have a calming effect and, once I have the data I require, we can proceed with the real business."

"I..." Paxton gasped, "I'll help! I'll help!"

"Of course you will," Scarecrow said with a friendly nod, as he tore open a foil pouch and extracted a sterile alcohol swab. "I never believed otherwise. But I think you have to admit that with your track record, I'm justified in having some doubts about your loyalty. I know how you tried to put one over on False Face. I think it's best you have a clear idea of the consequences, should you think about betraying _me_." He swabbed a small patch on Paxton's arm and stabbed the needle in.

Paxton moaned, as Scarecrow withdrew the syringe.

"Rest," Scarecrow ordered, chucking him lightly under the chin. "Let the drug take effect. Get what sleep you can, while I jot down your particulars. And when you're rested and refreshed," he continued, as Paxton's eyelids began to droop, "we'll have our first... game."

* * *

"Well, well," Hush remarked. "Scarecrow seems to be behind the recent zombie epidemic."

False Face raised an eyebrow. "Do tell?"

"You know Professor Crane. As long as it terrifies. I suppose we'll be dealing with a vampire epidemic next."

False Face gave a mock sigh. "If we must. Can we hope for the non-sparkly variation, at least?"

Hush tilted his head to one side. "Which breed would scare more Gothamites?"

False Face paused, weighing the question. Finally, he gave a short laugh. "Damned if I know. So. Getting back to the zombies. Do you think this is Crane's way of entering the ring in your little competition?"

Hush worried at the end of one of his bandages. "It might be, I suppose. With Scarecrow, though, you have to remember that if it doesn't involve fear—preferably on a large scale—it's not going to involve him. Bats don't scare easily. Now, if it were something along the lines of inducing a panicked stampede in which the current Batman were to be trampled... then, yes, I think Crane might well emerge from the shadows. On the other hand, you could obligingly drop an unconscious Bat on his doorstep, hand Crane a loaded gun... and damned if Crane won't cart him down to his lab and expose him to various kinds of fear gas, keeping the Bat alive long enough to turn the tables and escape. He's not a stupid man, by any stretch. He's just not a very wise one."

False Face nodded. "So. While I certainly enjoy our conversations, I'm sure you've some assignment for me other than," he helped Hush unwind the bandage and reached for the cream he needed when the nerve pain was particularly severe, "helping you attend to your hands." So saying, he squeezed a generous dollop into Hush's waiting palm and walked toward a cabinet in search of a fresh roll of gauze bandage.

"I do," Hush replied. "It's dangerous. I'll admit that outright. Of course, if it weren't, I'd go myself and have you stand in for me here."

"Danger has a high cost."

"I can pay you in cash or commodities. Wire transfer is another possibility."

"I'm listening."

Hush smiled. "As you know, Intergang is expanding. They've invited me to Metropolis to," he paused for effect, "negotiate. I have no idea at this time whether I'm their sole invitee or whether they're asking the likes of Cobblepot and Falcone down as well. It could be that the offer is genuine and they've asked me down to see if I'm willing to knuckle under to them. Depending on how attractive their offer is, I might be. Of course..."

"...It's just as likely to be a trap to take out any competition early," False Face finished. "So you'd rather send a decoy, in case this does turn out to be the latter."

"Yes."

False Face smiled. "Candor goes a long way with me. I appreciate knowing what I'm getting into at the outset." His smile yielded to a thoughtful frown as he considered. "We're the same height, but I'm thinner. The bandages will help with that. As will body armor."

"I can obtain that easily enough," Hush replied, nodding. "There's an interesting option on the market called Dragon Skin Armor. Made up of silicon carbide ceramic and laminates, it's lighter, stronger, and more flexible than Kevlar."

"I have no idea what the first part of what you just said means," False Face admitted, "but I like that last bit. I'll need a full suit of the stuff; not just a bulletproof vest. If I am going to be walking into a bloodbath, it would be foolhardy to assume they're only going to be firing at my torso."

Hush nodded again. "I believe that the manufacturer only advertises vests. However, once one obtains the raw materials and the proper shaping tools—and I do have contacts who can arrange that for me—I've no doubt that that additional armor can be fashioned easily enough. And if I'm wrong," he shrugged, "there are other armors available. You'll do it then."

"Provided you absorb all my expenses in addition to my fee," he replied.

"Which would be?"

False Face named a figure. Hush considered.

"If you want to be paid in gemstones," Hush said finally, "I can have fifty percent of that to you by tomorrow. The rest on successful completion of the assignment. If you want cash, it'll take me a week or so to free it up." He frowned. "If we were discussing surgery, this would be the point where I'd ask you to fill out a form on which you specified next of kin. If this does turn out to be a trap, and our precautions fail, where should I allocate the unpaid part of your fee?"

"Well," False Face replied with forced good cheer, "if I'm still alive, toward my medical expenses. If not... use it to make sure whoever does me in doesn't make it to a ripe old age. And gemstones are fine. Alpha Grade, VS1 or better; I'd rather have a few superior stones than many of lesser worth, even if the cash value is the same."

"That won't be a problem," Hush nodded. "I'll haggle with you on one point, though. Custom body armor, especially for a nonstandard article like, say, a coif or a knee pad, can get a bit pricy. It's not the parts; it's the labor. My artisan is very good. But he costs."

False Face sighed. "I guess I can't exactly spend anything if I'm six feet under. Fine. Every piece but the bulletproof vest can be deducted from the fee, but I want to know the sum total before work on the suit commences."

"Fair enough," Hush replied. "Normally, I'd shake on it but," he glanced meaningfully down at the hand around which False Face was carefully winding the bandage roll, "it's going to hurt me enough parting with that sum. No point adding to the pain. At least," he said, thinking darkly about the vigilante responsible for his damaged hands, "not _my_ pain."

* * *

"Oh, stop moaning," Scarecrow snapped. "Your feet haven't even left the ground, yet."

Paxton stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor between the rack and the iron maiden. His hands were bound before him with the rope that hung from the ceiling, hoisted over his head, and yanked taut. Scarecrow held the rope's other end as he walked slowly around his captive, studying him as though Paxton were some uncooperative lab rat. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "How long have you worked for PMWE?" he asked.

"What?"

"I'm starting with easy questions!" Scarecrow sounded miffed. "Answer them fully and honestly and I'll give you some slack in the rope. It's been nearly fifteen minutes. A man in your less-than-peak physical condition?" He took Paxton's chin in a rough, burlap-gloved hand and gave it a vicious twist. "I'm sure you're starting to feel the strain." His voice softened. "Cooperate and the pain eases. Prove stubborn and I move on to the next step." He tugged gently on the rope and Paxton whimpered as his heels left the floor. He released it, letting the stout cord run through his fingers, and Paxton sighed his relief as the pressure on his arms eased.

"By the way," Scarecrow continued, "during the Spanish Inquisition, a far harsher variation of this method was used. It was called the strappado. Imagine having your hands tied behind your back. Imagine weights on your feet. And now, imagine being hoisted all the way up to that ceiling... It's a good thirty feet, by the way; I simply love old buildings with deep cellars... Imagine being hoisted up to that ceiling by your wrists... and left there for a moment or two." He circled his captive once more. "It really wouldn't take much to set that up for you," he said thoughtfully. "There's a weight just behind you, ready to clamp onto your ankles right now. It would be a simple matter to retie your hands behind you and hook you back up. We might work up to that down the road. After we play with some of the other devices."

Sweat beaded on Paxton's forehead. Scarecrow laughed and ran his fingertips over it. "So, you have an imagination after all," he said, pleased. "Excellent. And somewhat rare for a corporate stuffed shirt. You're a rare find, Mr. Paxton." He slapped him heartily on the back. Paxton flinched as Scarecrow continued. "Now, let's see what we can do to exercise it. Again. How many years have you been with Wayne Enterprises?"

Paxton sighed. "Thirty-one."

"A long time. What floor is your office on?"

"Fortieth."

"The name of your administrative assistant?"

"What does she have to do with any of this?" Paxton blurted. He gasped, as his hands jerked over his head once more.

Scarecrow shook his head dolefully. "There's a penalty for not answering my questions," he said. He scratched his chin, thinking. "Hmm... now what was that order again? Should I keep you on your tiptoes for a little while, or should I lock the weight around your ankles in case I need to lift you higher later? I can never remember these things. I should write them down."

"Mariette," Paxton gulped. "Her name is Mariette Chalmers."

Scarecrow clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now. If I wanted to get into PMWE, who would I need to talk to about bypassing a new security system that was installed shortly after you left? It's so difficult to find a corporate directory," he continued, his voice rising angrily. "You people keep them under lock and key! Bah! Well?"

Paxton was shaking. "I don't know. I don't! Honest! I didn't work with security; I don't know who to deal with there now. Please..."

Scarecrow stepped back and regarded him carefully. "I'd like to believe that," he said slowly. "But I think I'd also like to see if that active imagination of yours might encourage you to remember something." He jerked the rope and tied it off to a floor ring, leaving Paxton balanced on his tiptoes.

He walked out of the cell and returned a few minutes later, flanked by two zombies. By then, Paxton's arms were trembling.

"You're under a lot of strain, Mr. Paxton," Scarecrow said. "Perhaps you should relax. Lie down." He jerked his head toward the zombies. "Bring him to the table."

Paxton could barely struggle as the zombies moved to obey. In short order, he was lying down on the trestle table, his spine on the wooden log, his arms and legs spread-eagled and locked into the chains at each corner.

Scarecrow reached for another syringe kit and uncorked a vial of liquid. "This one is interesting. It keeps your heart rate from entering the danger zone, while maintaining you in a high state of alert. Rather like a dose of caffeine without the accompanying palpitations. You see," he said as he rolled up Paxton's sleeve and prepared another alcohol swab, "it's occurred to me that while you've had a good look at all of the devices in here, you still may be unclear on how each item functions. I'd like to change that. So, for the next few hours, you're going to watch an informative video that will play on the ceiling." He clamped a pair of headphones onto Paxton's ears. "It's a loop, so don't worry if you miss something the first time. You'll get it on the next go-round. Then we'll resume our conversation with a new twist: I'll be picking out various implements and expecting you to tell me what each one does before I ask the next question. If you're correct, you'll find your discomfort eased. Give the wrong answer, though, and... Well, let's just say that experience can sometimes be the best teacher."

Paxton winced, and not just because of the needle. Something else sprang to mind, just then: Jonathan Crane had been fired from his position at Gotham University for conducting unethical experiments on his students. It seemed that nothing had changed. But even he wasn't a big enough fool to mention it in front of Crane. And then he was alone, stretched out on an uncomfortable table, barely able to twitch a muscle.

The room went dark. The ceiling lit up. And the image of the hollow bull appeared above him.

"The Brazen Bull," a voice began, "was devised in Ancient Greece. It is constructed of bronze, hollow, with a door in one side. After the prisoner is sealed within, fires are lit beneath the bull, heating the metal..."

Paxton moaned as the narration continued.

* * *

"You seem preoccupied," Jeremiah Arkham noted, as he watched Cass nibble on the end of her pencil.

She flushed guiltily. "Sorry."

"It's not that young man you're seeing, is it?"

She shook her head. "No. I..." she frowned. She couldn't lie outright, but she wondered how much she could talk about what was really on her mind without divulging too much of her Batgirl activities. She sighed. "Silly, I guess. Zombies."

"Ah," he nodded sagely. "Yes, I did read about that attack the other day. Preposterous." Her skepticism must have showed on her face because he harrumphed and continued. "Oh, I don't doubt they're behaving like some rejects from a third-rate horror movie, but no, there's something else in play—illusion, hypnosis, mind control..."

"You mean... Mad Hatter?" Cass ventured.

If Arkham suspected her of anything other than curiosity, he gave no sign. Instead, he nodded with a slight frown. "Jervis Tetch would be a good guess," he admitted, "if he weren't currently in custody. Still, there are any number of patients I've dealt with in the past who might be capable of concocting something like this, though I can't think why."

Cass shook her head slightly. "But... your patients. If their minds don't... don't work right, then... _can_ anyone think... why?"

Jeremiah sighed. "In most cases, my dear young woman, yes. My patients are ill. They are not stupid and they are not incapable of reason. They simply reason differently from you or me when it comes to certain matters. Without discussing a specific case, I can tell you that if one were to look either at the process involved, that is to say, drugs, mind control, or hypnosis... or at the effect caused, that is, fear..." He frowned. "Fear," he repeated, his eyes widening. He pushed his chair away from the table abruptly. "Forgive me, Cass. I believe that I need to make a telephone call. Privately. Continue your work; I'll review it momentarily."

Cass watched him go, relieved that he'd spared her the need to beat a retreat of her own. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. "Oracle," she said softly, "Need... um... I mean... I need... data. Please. Location of... Scarecrow."

She suppressed a sigh when Barbara told her that she was running a program and would have to call her back in a few minutes. How was she supposed to deal if Jeremiah came back? When the phone vibrated, she was so excited she nearly dropped it. "Yes?"

"How did you know?" Barbara asked.

"He's out," Cass said flatly. "Isn't he?"

"Yeah," Barbara admitted. "I'm not sure why the authorities weren't advised immediately, but it looks like he's been gone about five days."

"And first zombie attack?"

Barbara let out a long breath. "Three days ago."


	39. 38. In a Cold Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: “Forever” written by Jason Sellers and Neil Thrasher. Performed by Rascal Flatts on their Unstoppable album (Lyric Street, 2009); But Not the Hippopotamus written by Sandra Boynton (Little Simon, 1982).

_Sometimes I get so mad, I scream, I swear at this_   
_cause this isn't how we planned it._   
_I sit here in a cold room_   
_Prayin', waitin' on you_

_—Jason Sellers, Neil Thrasher, “Forever”_

**Chapter 38—In a Cold Room**

The metal helmet with the long donkey ears and face mask was heavy and uncomfortable. Lester Paxton had been wearing it for what felt like hours. Scarecrow had locked the device onto his head when he failed to name it. Above him, the film that depicted various torture devices came to the end and immediately looped around to the beginning once more. As Paxton moaned, the cell door slid open and Scarecrow re-entered.

“Well, Lester,” the spindly man said genially, “are you able to tell me now what that silly-ass thing you’re wearing is?”

Paxton nodded as best he could, shackled to the table as he was. “It’s a mask of infamy,” he mumbled.

Scarecrow rose to his tiptoes and leaned toward him with the grace of a dancer, one hand extended to his ear—or, at least, to where his ear ought to be under the burlap bag of a mask that enveloped his head. “Pardon?”

Paxton repeated his statement a bit louder.

“Ah, good. You have been paying attention. And what is the purpose of this mask, Mr. Paxton?” he demanded, every inch the academic professor.

Miserably, Paxton replied, “It’s used to humiliate the wearer.”

Scarecrow rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Well, then. I think we can remove it.” He gestured to one of the hulking zombies that loomed in the shadows behind him. “Unlock his mask. Remove it. Put it on its stand on the shelf over the table.” He smiled at Paxton. “We may need it again.”

He giggled a bit when he saw Paxton flinch. “I’m pleased that you’ve stopped struggling against your restraints,” he said, advancing toward the trestle table. “I have cameras mounted along the walls of this chamber. The door is locked and guarded. And once you are caught attempting to escape,” he paused ominously, “I’m likely to take that as a request enroll in a more... how should I put this... advanced seminar? I can assure you that you would find the experience... grueling.

Paxton whimpered. Then he exhaled in relief as the mask came off.

“Now then,” Scarecrow continued, business-like. “Where were we? Ah yes. Who is the current head of building security at PMWE?”

Paxton closed his eyes. “His name is Sal Fiorini,” he said heavily.

“How long has he been with the company?”

“At least eight years.”

“Open your eyes, Lester, and identify the image on the ceiling.”

Paxton’s eyes inched open slowly. “That... that’s the Scavenger’s Daughter.”

“Very good, Lester. Now, for the opportunity to have one wrist unfettered, how does it work?”

Paxton swallowed hard. “It’s a rack in reverse. It compresses the body instead of stretching it.”

Keys jangled as the Scarecrow approached. “One wrist it is, Lester. Now. Let us discuss Mr. Fiorini in greater detail.”

* * *

 

Oracle took a breath and let it out with an angry hiss.

“Trouble?” Dick asked. When Barbara turned to face him, he asked, “Do we have any more of the travel-size toothpastes or did we use them up?”

Barbara thought for a moment. “I think there might be a shoebox of them in the linen closet. You know, Metropolis isn’t in a third-world country. I’m pretty sure you can find a drugstore there. That’s if the hotel turns out to be the only one in the city that doesn’t provide complimentary toiletries.”

“They’ll probably have spearmint,” Dick muttered, “not peppermint.”

“You’ll survive,” Barbara smiled heartlessly.

In a completely different tone of voice, Barbara continued, “To answer your question, Scarecrow’s been on the loose for a few days. Blackgate reported it, but the police have been keeping it out of the media. I guess they’re afraid of panicking people.”

Dick sighed. “I guess with the so-called zombie attack, they don’t want to add to the general tension.”

“If Scarecrow hadn’t escaped, there wouldn’t _be_ a zombie attack,” Barbara replied. “He’s using them to terrorize the city.”

Dick groaned. “So, basically, he’s mind-controlling half the population to scare the other half?”

“I’m thinking there are a lot fewer zombies than that out there. Seriously, one zombie can probably frighten a few hundred Gothamites. And since Crane’s all about scaring people, it would make sense for him to have more,” she made a face, “scar _ee_ s than scar _er_ s.”

Dick gave her a pained smile. “Want me to postpone Metropolis? I can even tell Sal the truth about why.”

Barbara considered. “With Batgirl and the Titans hanging around, I’d say we can manage. There is something else, though.”

“Hit me.”

Barbara pulled up a file. “This is the visitors’ log at Blackgate. Normally, Scarecrow doesn’t get anyone but his lawyer. But for the last three months...”

Dick read the name and frowned. “Who’s Dr. Linda Friitawa?”

“The name didn’t mean anything to me either,” Barbara admitted. “So I did some digging. She was a geneticist, until she lost her medical license for conducting unauthorized experiments on human beings. And... the last time that the board declared Crane fit for release, he rented a lab—supposedly for more ethical experiments in fear induction; guess we know how that ended—and hired her as his assistant. While the authorities found out that he was back to his old tricks and shipped him back to his old cell, there was no proof that Friitawa was guilty of anything other than association. She was never charged.”

“You think she might have been in deeper?”

Barbara nodded. “Let’s just say that I think it’s interesting that she started visiting Scarecrow shortly before that bomb scare at PMWE. One of the objectives of terrorism _is_ terror, after all.”

Dick glowered. “Were any other buildings targeted?”

“If they were, it didn’t make the media outlets,” Barbara replied. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t. Nobody reports when a fire alarm goes off, unless there’s a fire. Someone calls to report a bomb on the premises; they evacuate and call for a bomb squad, but if it’s a false alarm, and it’s not a slow news day, it might not be newsworthy. I mean, if they have a choice of stories to feature and it comes down to ‘Prank call empties office building’ or ‘Firefly torches City Hall,’ I know which one they’re going to go with.”

Dick sighed. “And in PMWE’s case, it was a little different, because whoever it was saw an opportunity to strike out at me. Or Bruce. Or both of us. It’s a good hypothesis, but do we have anything to back it up beyond ‘these people get off on fear and a bomb threat scares people’?”

“Beyond the timing?” Barbara shook her head. “I’m working on it.”

“Okay.” He bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Keep me posted. I’m going to check the linen closet for that peppermint toothpaste.”

* * *

 

“Okay,” Brenner said slowly. “I think I see part of the problem. You remember when Farnham had us balancing dimes on the gun muzzles?”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“The guns were empty that time. Now what’s happening is that you’re anticipating the recoil and—”

“Flinching,” Bruce interrupted. “I know.” He sighed. “I’m not... good with guns.”

Brenner nodded. “It took me a few years before I could get behind the wheel of a car.”

“Pardon?”

“When I was seventeen,” Brenner said slowly, “I was driving home after a football game. I was giving a couple of the guys a lift. There were three of us in the car; two in the front seat, one in the back. And as we were going through an intersection, a car slammed into the rear passenger side. Lewis didn’t make it. We found out afterwards that the other driver had been drinking. Me, I kept thinking, maybe if I’d waited another second or gone a drop faster or...” He shook his head. “You know what it is to have people telling you over and over that it’s not your fault and even knowing that they’re right, but still feeling like it is?”

Bruce closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Brenner nodded slowly.

“Therapy helped. But I still got nervous about driving, especially if there was someone else in the car with me. It took me a long time to get past it. I still get nightmares from time to time,” he admitted.

“But the defensive driving module...” Bruce began.

Brenner gave him a fleeting smile. “It’s all been simulation, so far. Video games? A vacant lot full of traffic cones? That’s nothing. I’m okay with normal defensive driving; the stuff everyone needs to pass to get a license. As for what happens when I’m actually on the road and in pursuit of a suspect,” he shrugged, “I’m not looking forward to it, but I think I’m at the point where I can handle it when I have to.”

Bruce nodded. “I suppose my family history precedes me.”

“Well,” Brenner admitted, “the media has brought it up a few times. Look, there’s one thing I did know about riding before you started coaching me.”

“Let me guess,” Bruce said wearily. “When you fall, get back on the horse.”

“Pretty much,” Brenner replied. “I mean, with respect, Squad Leader, you’ve been through a fair amount of hell here already, what with the whole... Jandt business. It’d be kind of stupid if you worked through all of that and let a hunk of steel drive you away.”

“Point,” Bruce sighed.

“Sir, you do know that flinching isn’t a sign of a weak character, right?”

Bruce was about to retort that of course he knew it, that on paper, in theory, he knew the course cold; it was only when he had to put it all into practice that his problems surfaced. Instead, he nodded. “As much as you know that the car accident wasn’t your fault.”

Brenner gave him a fleeting smile. “Yeah, well. I’m working on my issues. We’ll work on that flinch.”

“I’ve been working on it,” Bruce said testily.

“Well, the main thing now is that you’re tensing up before you pull the trigger. I’m not sure how much of that is fighting that part of you that doesn’t want to do this and how much is bracing for the recoil, but tensing up makes the recoil worse.”

“I’m aware of that,” Bruce snapped.

“Then you’re aware that you need to relax,” Brenner pointed out.

“You make it sound so easy,” Bruce sighed.

Brenner was silent for a moment. Then, “Sir... when you get ready to fire, I’ve noticed that you’re leaning forward from the waist. Try leaning with your whole body. It’ll adjust your—”

“—Center of gravity, I know,” Bruce replied. “I know. It just...”

Brenner sighed. “You’re going to make me drag out one of my favorite Star Trek quotes, aren’t you?”

Bruce’s scowl gave way to a resigned shrug. “What? ‘You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Spock?’” A memory sprang to mind of how he’d had to threaten to revoke teenaged Dick’s television privileges for a month to get the youth to stop tossing that particular line in his direction.

“Nope,” Brenner grinned. “Damn you, sir, you will try.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. Then he gave Brenner a bleak smile in response and picked up the shotgun, correcting his stance as the other man had suggested.

* * *

 

An overly-genial representative from PMWE’s Metropolis office met Dick at the airport the following evening. Once the usual pleasantries were out of the way, the man escorted Dick to a waiting sedan and drove him to the Halldorf Hotel.

“We’ll see you at ten tomorrow,” he said, after he’d checked Dick in. “They’ll be expecting you at the reception desk. Meanwhile,” he handed Dick a USB drive, “this should give you an overview of what we’re looking for. I presume you’ve brought a laptop?”

Dick nodded. “And a smart phone. It’s just harder to type up a report on one of those.”

His escort laughed. “I take your point. Well, I wouldn’t be up too late going over the material. A lot of it’s going to be repeated at the briefing in the morning, anyway.”

“Still,” Dick grinned, “it never hurts to be prepared.”

The rep left him at the elevators. Once in his room, Dick plugged the USB drive into his laptop and hooked the laptop up to his smart phone to establish a secure wi-fi connection. As he’d hoped, the first file showed a planned schedule for the next two weeks. After letting Barbara know that he’d arrived safely and leaving a message to advise Bruce of the same, he called one more number.

“Hey, Clark. I’m here. And it looks like PMWE’s leaving me to my own devices in the evening, apart from theater tickets next Friday night. So, if you want to get together at some point while I’m here, give me a call back. I’ll be up for a bit.”

* * *

 

As soon as Bruce rounded the corner of the corridor, headed for his first class of the day, he knew something was wrong. He wasn’t surprised to find more than a dozen of his fellow cadets there ahead of him, whispering among themselves. He didn’t have Cass’s expertise at reading body language, but he recognized apprehension when he saw it. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

At his approach, the others looked up to see who it was. A couple nodded to him before resuming whispered conversations. After a moment, he walked over to where Ortega stood, leaning against the wall. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“You haven’t heard?”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

Ortega sighed. “I had a call from Dawson last night, asking me if she needed to notify me before she resigned from the academy or if she had to go directly to admin. I tried to talk her out of it, but her mind was made up.”

Bruce frowned. “I see. Did she give a reason?”

“Just that she’d already failed one test and the way she felt about her score on the make-up yesterday, she wanted to leave before they kicked her out.”

Bruce’s frown deepened. He and Dawson had never really had much to say to one another, but he knew her and he’d seen nothing in her performance to suggest that she was foundering. The test papers that he had to grade only had their student ID numbers, of course, no names. He’d had no way of knowing how she was doing on those. However, in those disciplines that he could observe: drills, firearms, driving, and so on, she’d seemed to be fine.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Ortega continued, “but you know that gossip is about the only force in the universe capable of exceeding the speed of light.”

 _Was everyone in this class a science fiction buff?_ Bruce wondered.

He hesitated, considering. “Are you aware of any others who are having difficulties?”

Ortega blinked. “I... I think most of us are in one thing or another.”

“Yes, but we’re addressing your issues with the driving simulator. Brenner is working with me on the firing range, as is a close friend. He and I are dealing with his equestrian drills. I’m talking about people who aren’t getting that help.”

Ortega frowned. “I know what you’re getting at. I don’t know. Dawson dropping out comes as a shock to me, but she might have confided in someone.”

“Or she might have been concerned about...” Bruce took a deep breath. “I know something about being part of a team and being concerned that admitting a weakness would result in a suggestion that, perhaps, I was in the wrong place.” He shook his head. “It took some time to realize that I was harder on myself than any of the others were.” Not that he’d ever admit it to Clark. Well... Clark probably knew already. Hal, however, was a different story. He had no intention of ever mentioning anything like this to Hal.

He frowned, thinking. “Are you still coming over this weekend?”

“Is it all right?” Ortega asked. “I’m doing okay in the class, but since it feels like the extra practice is paying off, I’d like to keep it up.”

“It’s fine. It just occurred to me that I might... we might... want to expand the extra coaching. Extend it to others who might need it.” He wished Dick were here. Dick would be able to sound far more enthusiastic about what he was suggesting. “We’re meant to be a team. That’s what all of these collective penalties are meant to drive home. It’s too late to help Dawson. But, perhaps...”

“You mean some sort of peer tutoring?”

“After a fashion,” Bruce nodded. He heard footsteps heading their way and recognized them as Sgt. Tyrell’s. “We’ll discuss this later,” he added, as they hurried to get into line before the sergeant approached.

* * *

 

In Keystone City, Selina sank back on the Wests’ sofa and watched her daughter working on a pre-school puzzle, doing her best to fit the wooden pieces in the correct holes. In just over a week, Helena would turn two.

Selina sighed wistfully. A year ago, Bruce had still been in Arkham, but out on weekend passes. They’d been reconnecting slowly, each trying to feel the other out, see if they could rekindle what had been. Helena had helped with that, she thought. Bruce was usually much more ready to cut people loose than put in the effort to keep them. Even with Helena’s presence, he’d tried to push her away, but less forcefully than he might have, and he’d let her back into his life sooner.

It had been a long year; a hard one; sprinkled with numerous absences from Gotham: Maine and New Hampshire, Birds of Prey missions, the Solomon Islands, and now, Keystone City. Would she be back in Gotham for Helena’s second birthday? She hoped so.

“Momma!” Helena had finished the puzzle. With a huge smile on her face, she applauded herself.

Selina laughed. “Very good, Helena. How about a story?”

“Yaw.”

Selina smiled, wondering where Helena had picked that one up. ‘Yeah’ or ‘yes’ would have been understandable, but ‘yaw’? “Okay. Want to pick a book?”

“Yaw,” Helena repeated, and started to dig in the plastic milk crate that held a stash of picture books. In short order, she was curled up next to her mother, peering seriously over an open Sandra Boynton board book.

“A hog and a frog do a dance in a bog, but not the hippo...”

“...Po’muss!” Helena squealed.

“Good! A cat and two rats are trying on hats...”

* * *

 

Although Bruce was deadly serious, the expression on Tim’s face nearly made him crack a smile. “Well?”

Tim shook his head in disbelief. “You want the Teen Titans to face off against the police academy cadets,” he repeated. “You’re not kidding.”

“I don’t kid.” He sighed. “A classmate dropped out this week. That kind of thing hurts morale. We’re nearly at the halfway point. For me, that means that I’m that much closer to being able to get back out there and do what I do. For the others, it means that they’re that much closer to going out there for the first time and trying to do what they’ll have to if I’m not around. I suspect that the vast majority of my classmates have never met a metahuman, much less fought one. The unarmed combat module at the academy provides a decent enough grounding in the basics, but that won’t be enough.”

“But you think an afternoon with us will.”

Bruce glowered. “You know me better than that. Just as you know that sometimes, repeated drills don’t achieve anything close to the same esprit de corps as a... a... free-for-all, or,” he paused, remembering earlier days and roughhousing with a different incarnation of the Teen Titans, “a game of frozen tag.”

Tim tilted his head sideways. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Bruce?”

“Tim...”

The youth ignored the warning growl in his mentor’s voice. “Is it Starro? Are you a double? Did Hugo Strange—?”

“Believe me,” Bruce gritted, “if I could have found a double willing to undergo the academy in my place, I might have considered it... but there are some things even _my_ rogues gallery won’t stoop to.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. Bruce’s lips twitched. Tim spun about abruptly and leaned against the cave wall, shoulders shaking. Bruce took advantage of the opportunity to collect himself. “So,” Tim said, taking a deep breath and managing a poker face, “you think that giving them a chance to _try_ to take down the Titans will boost... um... _esprit de corps_?”

“We outnumber you roughly five to one.”

Tim sighed. “Do we have to lose?”

“Of course not,” Bruce replied. “However, if your opponents don’t make foolish mistakes or act too overconfident, there’s no need for you to win, either.”

“Ah.”

Bruce regarded him sharply. “Are we clear?”

“I think so.”

“And you’ll do it?”

“I will. I’ll have to ask the team if they’ll go along with it.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “Ask them,” he nodded. The twitch became a full smile. “I believe that, despite your training, even you might find it a challenge to defend yourself against thirty-one opponents all by yourself.” His smile grew wider. “Particularly as I intend to be one of them.”

Tim gulped.

* * *

 

After Tim left, Bruce sat down at his monitor display, his previous good humor gone. He called up a new session and checked Skrype. Many of his contacts showed available, but Wally West was not among them.

Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone, frowned, and replaced it. He didn’t know what he would say if Selina came on the line.

A year ago today, he had been a far worse situation, but the way ahead had looked brighter. He’d actually believed that his troubles would be mostly over once he was released from Arkham. There had been a time when he’d tried to have contingencies for every eventuality, but there was no way that he could have predicted or prepared for the last twelve months.

He checked his email and smiled. Selina had sent him a photo, probably taken with her smart-phone, of Helena playing with her blocks. The attached message read only, “We miss you.”

Bruce sighed. He missed them too, but if they knew how much, he worried that they might be on the next flight to Gotham. Selina could be impulsive that way. He debated leaving the message unanswered but good manners won out.

“Stay safe,” he typed. Then he hit ‘Send’ before he could start wondering whether to add anything else to his reply.

* * *

 

From his penthouse accommodation on the top floor of the Halldorf Hotel, False Face gazed down at Metropolis’ Centennial Park. Through the overhanging tree branches, he could just make out the two statues of Superman and Superboy.

He left the balcony and re-entered the suite. He’d read of such opulence, though he’d never dreamed he’d encounter it. Well, to be fair, at one time, he’d nearly colluded with Hugo Strange in a plot to have Bruce Wayne kidnapped and take his place. Had that caper gone as planned, well, while False Face had never been inside Wayne Manor, he imagined its décor and furnishings to be very much like the suite in which he now found himself.

Sadly, that caper had never come to fruition. Strange had been too obsessed, too discomfiting. He’d also been one of those who expected False Face to work for him in exchange for no money down; just a share of the profits down the road. While False Face could appreciate that many of his potential employers suffered from chronic cash-flow problems and depended on their underworld activities to fund their operations, he himself insisted on a reasonable retainer paid up-front. An individual who couldn’t accommodate that request wasn’t an individual with whom False Face felt he could do business.

Even those who could accommodate that request weren’t always trustworthy. Which reminded him: he hadn’t made Paxton squirm in a few days. He’d have to attend to that shortly. Meanwhile, he needed to let Hush know that he’d arrived safely.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number with no small difficulty. The bandages on his hands—bandages wrapped over a pair of thin cotton gloves as an extra precaution against leaving fingerprints behind—made his fingers stiff and clumsy. He wondered how Hush managed it on a regular basis, particularly with the damage that Nightwing had done to his hands. He smiled slightly. As much as the gloves and bandages were inconveniences, they also helped to make his disguise more believable. Anyone from Intergang who might have met Dr. Thomas Elliot within the last two years would likely have noted his injuries. Having normal use of his hands might arouse suspicion. Still, this was going to take some getting used to.

“I’m in,” he announced, when Hush’s voice came on the line. “No,” he replied in answer to his partner’s question. “No difficulties. And, if they do intend to kill me, at the very least, they’re making my final days on Earth fairly enjoyable. I’m in the penthouse at the Halldorf.” He laughed. “Yes. Yes, it is everything it’s reputed to be.”

False Face frowned then. “ _What_ about Paxton?” As Hush kept talking, his frown gave way first to surprise, and then, to amusement. “Oh, dear. Well, yes, I was rather put out when he tried to send me up the river and I suppose I did mention it in the Iceberg. Give me some slack, Elliot, I was angry. But how Crane could have found out about...” He blinked. “Well, yes, there was a lady, as I recall. Yes,” he said in surprise, “I believe she did fit that description. Oh, my. So, she was one of Crane’s assistants and she passed the information on to...” He began to laugh. “Oh, dear. Why,” he chortled, “I could _almost_ feel sorry for old Lester Paxton. Almost. No, no, not really. I don’t envy him, though. I suppose that’s close. Well, not close, but... No, Thomas,” he continued magnanimously. “Don’t put yourself out on my account. I just wanted the old codger to squirm a bit. I think we can count on the good Professor Crane to ensure that he will. Just let him have his fun.”

With an answering laugh, Hush dropped the subject and continued quizzing him on his experience in Metropolis thus far. Sounding satisfied, he began relaying new instructions. False Face listened attentively.

“Well,” he said, when Hush was finished. “That all seems fairly straightforward. I’ll keep you apprised.”

He ended the call and went back out to the balcony. The sun was setting, turning the sky into a lake of orange flame. As he gazed once more on the park below, he saw a streak of red and blue fly low over the treetops. Beneath the bandages, his eyebrows shot up. The Man of Steel wasn’t alone tonight. And his companion was certainly no stranger to anyone visiting from Gotham City...

“Not flying too fast for you, am I?” Superman asked, touching down on the globe atop the Daily Planet building.

Standing next to him, Nightwing gave his grappling line a tug to free it from the “D” of “Daily” that he had snagged to swing over. “Do I look out of breath?” he grinned.

“No,” Superman admitted. “You actually look pretty good for someone who was suffering from a bad case of flu and hives the last time I had a real visit with him.”

“Hey, better that than smallpox.” Although Nightwing’s voice was light, he was hard-put to suppress a shudder. That had not been a good time.

“So,” Superman said, “what did you mean earlier about this being a good excuse to come in? From the way you put it, I think you had something else on your mind besides keeping me company on patrol.”

Nightwing laughed. “Especially since you’re deliberately holding back, so I don’t lag behind.” His smile faded. “Intergang.” He quickly brought the Kryptonian up to date on what had been happening in Gotham, beginning with Selina’s car exploding outside the pediatrician’s office. As he talked, Superman’s eyes darkened. Nightwing took an unconscious step back. He rarely saw Superman upset, but it was plain that when he did, he could rival Bruce in powers of intimidation. Not that he would ever mention that observation to anybody but Babs when he got back to Gotham.

“Mannheim’s been quiet lately,” he said, when Nightwing was finished. “As far as my day job goes, I haven’t been on the city beat for a while,” he continued. “When I lost my powers, I also lost my ability to dash to the site of a story and get it typed up and on Perry’s desk ahead of the pack.” He looked away. “I’ve been doing all right with sports, entertainment, and the odd op-ed, but now that the red sun effect has finally worn off,well, as Superman, I generally deal with higher-level threats. As Clark? My old job has been filled and I’m waiting for Perry to give me a chance at the news again.” He smiled. “Lois, on the other hand...”

Dick smiled back. “She knows more?”

“She wouldn’t actually tell me anything until she submitted it,” Clark laughed. “I guess she still worries about my scooping her to show Perry I’m back in form. But I do know that she exposed one of Intergang’s schemes, a few months ago. It was just after Thanksgiving, actually. And since that story’s already appeared in print...”

“...She might be willing to part with her notes?”

“She might be willing to share the highlights with you.”

Dick laughed. “I’ll take it.”

“I’ll talk to her tonight. How late can I call you?”

Dick shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I always set my phone to vibrate before I turn in. If I don’t pick up, just leave me a message.”

“Will do.” His eyes narrowed. “Something’s going on in Suicide Slum and I don’t see any police cars close by. Are you up for it?”

“Point me in the right direction.”

Superman smiled. “I’ll do better than that. Are you up for a bit of flying? It’s faster than your grappling line.”

Nightwing grinned. “Second time in less than forty-eight hours. First time without a plane, though.”

Superman laughed. Then he wrapped a strong arm around Nightwing’s waist and leaped off of the Daily Planet globe.

* * *

 

Sal Fiorini had told his people that even when he was off-duty, he was always on call. So, when he received an urgent message in a stressed-sounding voice about something going haywire with the new security system, even though it was nearly midnight, he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

The voice on the other end had sounded vaguely familiar. The name had not, but then, it wasn’t just building security that operated twenty-four-seven. It had probably been someone in one of the tech support call centers.

He frowned. But then, why had the voice sounded familiar? He didn’t know any of the night supervisors in those areas. As he drove through the dark streets, against the flow of traffic leaving the downtown core for suburbia, he was mentally cycling through the list of call center supervisors he did know. Quite possibly, one of them was working the night shift as a special circumstance.

All at once, his eyebrows drew together. He _did_ know that voice. That had been Lester Paxton! But why hadn’t he identified himself? And what the hell was he doing at PMWE at this hour? He wasn’t supposed to be on the grounds at all.

Sal thought quickly. If there really was something going on at PMWE, it was his responsibility to look into it. On the other hand, if Paxton had truly gone so far as to hire a known criminal to frame Bruce Wayne and bolster a bogus restraining order... He took a deep breath. Then he pulled over to the side of the road, took out his phone, and punched in a number. He sighed when his call went immediately to voice mail.

“Hello, Lucius,” he said. “I’m on my way to the office. I just had a call that there’s an issue with the security system. The problem is, I’m almost positive the call was from Lester Paxton. I’m phoning the cops to meet me there, as soon as I get off with you. If I don’t come in tomorrow...” He hesitated. “If I don’t come in tomorrow, and you don’t hear from me, assume that something happened and take what precautions you can. Dick’s in Metropolis, but I have a feeling that Bruce might have some ideas. Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He ended the call. “Hopefully,” he repeated.

It took another minute to call the non-emergency police line. (One did not call 911 in Gotham City unless it was a confirmed emergency, which this wasn’t. Not yet.) The dispatcher was polite and professional, as she told him that she was sending a car and it would be there in fifteen minutes.

Sal was there in ten. In the shadows, he could see a tall muscular man, wearing an officer’s peaked cap and short jacket. Sal approached him, relieved. “You got here faster than I was expecting,” he smiled. “I...” His words died in his throat. He wasn’t wearing a GCPD cap. There was no badge on his jacket. And his gray skin and blank merciless stare, like his slow deliberate movements, marked him as something far more dangerous than a police officer.

The zombie seized his shoulder with one iron hand, while it clamped the other over Sal’s mouth. “Come...”


	40. 39: Blackest Demons, Weakest Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "Move Toward the Darkness" written by Andrew Lippa. Performed by the original Broadway cast on the Addams Family soundtrack album (Decca, 2010).
> 
> GED question taken from Test-Guide, GED Language Arts (site accessed December 4, 2014).

 

_Move toward the darkness_  
 _Welcome the unknown_  
 _Face your blackest demons_  
 _Find your weakest bone_  
 _Lose your inhibitions_  
 _Love what once was vile_  
 _Move toward the darkness and smile_

— _Andrew Lippa, "Move Toward the Darkness"_

#  **Chapter 39—Blackest Demons, Weakest Bone**

Sal Fiorini was no fighter. He was a middle-aged executive who got the bulk of his exercise by getting off the elevator ten floors below his office and taking the stairs the rest of the way up. He ate healthy foods in unhealthy quantities and blamed the extra forty pounds he'd put on since college on lousy metabolism. He often joked that he would throw his back out sooner than he would throw a punch. But he was also the head of building security at a company that was a frequent target of criminals and terrorists and, despite his unassuming appearance, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

He shoved a hand into his jacket pocket and closed it around the canister of pepper spray, even while he strained to break free of the zombie's iron grip on his right shoulder. When it became clear that his struggles were useless, Sal gave a mental shrug, brought out the canister, switched it to his left hand, and angled it upward, away from his own face and toward the zombie's.

All at once, the grip on his shoulder loosened and Sal jerked free. The zombie was holding its hand to its eyes, a puzzled look on its face. Sal aimed the spray again. Then, without waiting to assess the effect, he spun on his heel and started running.

Two gunshots exploded in his ears in quick succession. For a moment, Sal thought that someone was firing at him. Then he registered the black-and-white police car and the officer, partly shielded by the open door, lowering his gun. Someone else took his arm from behind and he began struggling anew, until an authoritative voice said, "Sir, Police. It's okay. It's over."

Sal slowly stopped fighting the hand on his arm and tried not to hyperventilate. He was dimly aware of the other officer calling for an ambulance. Over his shoulder, he could see that his attacker was moving feebly on the ground, as the officer holding his arm continued, "Sir, you're safe. We got him."

His knees buckled and he would have fallen were it not for that grip on his arm. The first officer walked around the front of the vehicle to stand in front of him.

"Mr. Fiorini?"

Sal nodded.

"Sergeant Barnard. Do you feel up to answering some questions?"

Sal nodded again. "Can I just... have a few minutes?"

* * *

Bruce fired the final shotgun shell at the target and lowered his weapon with a mental sigh of relief. He wasn't sure if he was gratified or appalled to realize that his pulse wasn't racing nearly as quickly as it had in his earlier sessions.

Brenner readied a new target. Bruce watched him, trying to use his fellow cadet's body language to gauge his score. Brenner had already told him that he wasn't going to say anything until they were done shooting.

"It's just that, right when you're starting to improve, it's as if you suddenly remember that you don't want to do this and you score lower on the next few targets," Brenner had pointed out.

Much as it galled him, Bruce had to admit that Brenner had a point. It was probably why, at home in the cave, he usually put the gun away once he achieved a respectable score on one target. He was setting his sights a good deal lower than he would for any other class, seeking a simple pass when, had it been any other discipline, he would have been striving to excel. And yes, there was a part of him that didn't even care to pass this course. It was just that he also cared very much about never failing at anything.

He knew that he'd erected a mental block in this area and if Brenner thought that holding off on letting him know the range results would break that block, Bruce was willing to consider the possibility.

"I think shifting your center was the right move, Sir," Brenner said when he returned. "We have time for one more, if you're up for it."

Bruce wasn't about to state that he wasn't. He'd practiced loading and reloading so many times that by now, the process was virtually automatic. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Steeling himself for what was to come, he loaded the shells, rose to his feet and, as Brenner had suggested, leaned forward and tried to anticipate the recoil without tensing up.

This time, when Brenner returned, it was with Bruce's targets under his arm and a broad smile on his face. "Sir, your lowest score was an 82. That last target was a 98." His smile fell away. "I... I know you're probably not over the moon about it, but at least it proves that you _can_ do this... even if you don't want to."

Bruce sighed. "A pep talk isn't really necessary," he pointed out.

Brenner shook his head. "Maybe not, sir. But then... I guess it shouldn't be necessary in the corral, either." He looked away. "And sometimes it's okay if not everything you get is strictly necessary. Sir."

Bruce picked up his shotgun and unused shells and started walking toward the firing range kiosk to sign them back in. "We're going to be late for class," he said.

* * *

Cass listened again to the short passage on Greek mythology. She understood the meaning of each word and the information that the paragraph conveyed. However, when faced with a question like, _"According to the author's description, which of the following is most likely to be a message from Greek mythology?"_ her mind went blank. The answer wasn't in the text. It was something that she had to come up with on her own. But the test wasn't asking for her opinion, the way the essays did. There was a right answer, but she wouldn't find it in the paragraph text.

"Repeat," she said finally.

Again, the recording repeated the passage and the question. She concentrated on the choices.

" _A. Love is difficult, but it will last if the lovers are meant to be together."_ Cass frowned. Love was difficult, no matter what. She didn't need Greek mythology to tell her that. She had only to look at Bruce and Selina or Dick and Barbara. Or her own... she didn't know if she could call it a 'love life' even.

" _B. Resisting temptation and immediate gratification will ultimately lead to success."_ Not necessarily, but that message sat better with her than the first one. Her frown deepened. The question wasn't about which answer sounded most real to her... it was which one sounded like something the person who wrote the short text would think.

"Repeat."

Obediently, the audio test guide recited the paragraph once more:

_Greek mythology is a vehicle that uses mythological characters and creatures to teach people about the dangers, beauties and possible outcomes of life. In many myths, characters face moral dilemmas involving honor and practicality. The protagonists of epics face creatures that represent values and challenges such as respect, temptation and redemption. How has Greek mythology inevitably evolved with time and new story tellers? Scholars who have interpreted Greek mythology seek to maintain the universal values conveyed in these stories, while ensuring the validity of adapting these stories to their own distinct cultures. It is up to each reader to seek their own truths and learn from epic Greek mythology as best they can._

Cass took a breath. "Pause."

"This test is paused," the recorded voice confirmed. "When you wish to resume, say: Resume."

Cass considered. Answer A still sounded wrong and answer B still made sense. "Resume."

The test guide moved on to the multiple choice answers.

" _C. It is important to keep track of your personal history."_ It was. Very important. Cass's eyebrows drew together. Was there anything like that in the paragraph, though. Well, there was that part about adapting stories to your own culture. Was 'culture' another way of saying 'personal history'? Her frown deepened. No... culture was... was... Well, she didn't really know another word for it, but it wasn't 'personal'. It was something for a group. Coll... _collective_ —THAT was the word she wanted. Cass listened to the other two choices, but B still sounded like the best one. She hoped. "B," she said.

The audio went on to the next question.

" _Which word best describes the author's account of Greek mythology? A. Idealistic; B. Pessimistic; C..."_

It took every bit of self control Cass had not to yank off the headphones and take out her frustrations on the Muy Thai boxing bag in the corner.

* * *

Sal Fiorini was late getting into the office. The police had needed his information for their report, but they were also compiling records on all suspected and confirmed zombie attacks, hoping for a common thread. They'd asked him to come down to the precinct to talk with one of the detectives assigned to the matter. Sal had been only too willing, but it was a typical night in Gotham City and there were higher-priority cases to attend to.

Sal hadn't really minded having to wait until the detective got around to talking to him. He'd left another message on Lucius's cell to let him know that he was all right and down at the station, and that he would give him the full details later the next day.

Then, he'd tried to make himself as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden bench, closed his eyes, and done his best to take a quick catnap. He'd tried to tune out the heated voices punctuated by sharp profanities, the squeaking of wheeled supply carts, the reek of cigarette smoke—smoking was, of course, banned on the premises, but the odor clung to hair and clothing—slamming doors, and other sounds he hadn't been able to place.

It seemed he'd only just managed to doze off when he heard someone calling his name. The detective—a kid who barely looked twenty-five, but who was already sporting a world-weary expression and fingernails yellowed from nicotine—was finally ready to talk to him.

Sal had been as forthcoming as he could, but the encounter had been over so quickly that he'd barely had time to absorb what had transpired.

By the time he'd finally got out of the station, the night sky had been starting to lighten and Sal decided to go home, shower, and get a bit more sleep. He didn't arrive at PMWE until shortly after ten.

As soon as he got there, even before going to his own office or taking off his coat, he was on his way to Lucius Fox. He knocked on the outer office door and entered unbidden.

A worried-looking administrative assistant half-rose from her chair. "He hasn't come in today, Mr. Fiorini."

Sal stopped in his tracks. "Is he ill, Fiona?" Lucius had insisted publicly that he'd fully recovered from a stroke he'd suffered some years earlier, but Sal had seen the stress that the CEO had been under, especially since Wayne's arrest. He hoped that the man hadn't experienced a relapse.

"I don't know," Fiona replied. "He just... never called in. I phoned his house and his wife said that she went to bed before he did last night and when she woke up this morning, he was gone. She assumed he'd gone in to the office early."

A cold dread settled over Sal, as he realized that he might not have been the only PMWE executive targeted last night. _Oh, Lester_ , he thought to himself, _what have you gotten yourself involved with? Or maybe, the better question would be '_ _ **Who?**_ _'_ Aloud, he said, "I'm calling the police."

* * *

Derek Powers opened up the bar fridge in his suite at the Metropolis Halldorf. He was whistling to himself, as he poured two and a half ounces of gin over the ice cubes in the cocktail shaker and added a quarter ounce of dry vermouth. He strained the cocktail into a martini glass and dropped in a green olive. He carried the drink to an upholstered ottoman chair, leaned back in contentment, and sipped the drink slowly. Intergang certainly knew how to treat their prospects, he thought to himself.

After he finished his martini, he remained seated, his finger absently tracing the rim of the glass for several moments before he set the glass down on an end table and reached for his phone. He supposed that he'd put off matters long enough.

With a sigh, he punched in Lester's number and felt his annoyance at performing the unpleasant duty drain away when his call went through to voicemail. "Hello, Lester," he said, trying—and failing—to coax some of the old deference back into his voice. "I'm currently out of town. I had a family emergency come up and I'm in Metropolis until further notice. So sorry I missed our meeting the other night, but the thing cropped up so suddenly. Anyway, I'll call you when I get back to Gotham. Have a good evening."

He ended the call, only mildly interested in why Paxton hadn't picked up. He'd been fairly sure that the man was laying low and trying to keep out of the public eye as much as possible. He couldn't help wondering what had finally coaxed the old fool out of hiding. With a mental shrug, he reached for the television remote and flipped to the sports channel. The baseball season had just started and, if he wasn't mistaken, the Metropolis Meteors were playing their home opener this evening against the Gotham Knights. Right now, though, the station was showing some kind of spring training highlights special. While it wasn't the main event, Derek reflected that it was a good way to kill a couple of hours before his meeting started.

* * *

Lucius Fox couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up with a headache this bad. He suspected that it might have been the celebration after earning his MBA, but perhaps, not even then. He groaned and tried to clasp his hand to his forehead, but it refused to move. That was wrong. He tried to turn over, but, to his horror, he couldn't move. His heart began to pound. He'd been semi-paralyzed some years ago, when he'd suffered that stroke, but it hadn't been like this. And it had only been on one side.

"T-Tanya?" he called his wife's name with some trepidation. "Tanya... Call the doctor. I can't move."

Instead of his wife's voice, he heard a heavy clanking and then another familiar voice said tiredly, "She can't hear you, Lucius."

His eyes flew open on a stone ceiling and he turned his head on reflex in the direction of the voice. "Lester?" He tried to get up once more. This time, he became aware of the restraints holding him in the padded dentist chair. Paxton was seated on the floor, his hands in his lap. Long chains attached to manacles at his wrists and connected to rings set high in the wall above. "What's going on?"

Paxton sighed. "Save yourself some pain, Lucius. When Scarecrow comes back—and he will come back, probably any minute now that you're awake—just... tell him what he wants to know. You will anyway. In the end."

There was no hint of Lester's customary bluster. Lucius found himself wondering what had been done to the man to wipe away his overbearing arrogance so completely. At the same time, he realized, he wasn't sure he wanted his curiosity satisfied. "What have _you_ told him?" Lucius asked.

"I don't remember," Paxton said miserably. "He wanted to know about PMWE personnel... the new security systems," he laughed bitterly. "I couldn't help him with those. They must have been implemented after my leave of absence took effect."

Lucius was unable to suppress the fury he was feeling. "That explains what I'm doing here, then."

Whatever response Paxton might have made was swallowed by his whimper, in response to footsteps heading toward them.

Lucius did his best to square his shoulders and steel himself for the ordeal ahead.

* * *

"If I'd known you were coming, Circus," Lois greeted Dick with the tail end of the smile she'd given her husband, "I'd have bought a cake."

Dick's grin broadened as he thrust a string-tied, white cardboard box at her. "Strudel do?" he asked.

Lois accepted the offering. "You got it from Kupperberg's!" she exclaimed in mock-despair. "Maybe I should just get this over with quickly and apply it directly to my hips..." She paused to give her husband a quick peck on the lips, before turning back to Dick.

"Smallville did mention you'd be popping by at some point," she admitted. "I just hadn't realized it'd be this soon. And going by the quality of the bribe," she tapped the strudel box meaningfully, "you need a favor."

Dick raised his eyebrows. "I'd better tell Bruce to watch his back or he's liable to lose that 'World's Greatest Detective' title," he deadpanned. Lois giggled and stepped aside to allow him into the apartment.

"Have a seat," Lois motioned him to the living room. "I'm just going to put this in the kitchen."

Dick went in the direction that she had pointed, Clark close on his heels. It was barely a moment later when Lois rejoined them. "So, this isn't entirely a social call," she stated.

Dick's expression turned serious. "Afraid not. I need to know what you've learned about Intergang recently. They've been... making our lives interesting for the last few weeks."

* * *

When Harrier and Batgirl landed on the roof of GCPD that night, they were surprised to find Commissioner Sawyer waiting for them. Although things had improved considerably since the Akins administration, the current commissioner rarely communicated with them directly, preferring to let Montoya handle most contacts.

Yet, here she was, in a jacket that was slightly too light for the climate, her arms folded to conserve body heat, rather than to convey disapproval. "Batgirl," she said flatly. "Harrier."

Harrier took a step forward and inclined his head a fraction. "Commissioner."

"If the two of you are here," she frowned, "I take it Batman isn't out tonight?"

Harrier showed no surprise at her deduction. "He's away. We're handling things. What's the trouble?"

Sawyer hesitated. "I suppose that if he were here, he'd already know. Last night, there was an attempted abduction of a PMWE executive. He escaped. A second executive is now missing and we're treating his disappearance as a second one; a successful one. However, as there have been no ransom demands," she continued in a voice devoid of emotional inflection, "we haven't ruled out foul play either." She took a deep breath. "The missing executive is Lucius Fox."

Batgirl spoke up tentatively. "And... other?"

"Sal Fiorini."

Harrier nodded. "How long has Fox been missing?" He asked, all business. "And what time was the attack on Fiorini?"

"Both happened last night some time. I should tell you that there's been another missing persons report filed concerning a third PMWE officer, although that one could be unrelated. Lester Paxton has been missing for... probably about seventy-two hours at this point. His wife reported it a day ago; apparently, she was away at the time. The last person to see him was probably his butler, Sinclair Thackeray. We've questioned him, but at this point we don't believe that he or Mrs. Paxton are involved."

Harrier nodded again. "Even if Paxton's currently on leave of absence," he pointed out, "if someone is going after PMWE execs for information, he could still be a source. Thanks for the tip. We'll check it out."

Batgirl took a step forward. "Let Batman help," she said.

Sawyer frowned. "We're not stopping him. If he'd answered the signal, I'd have given him the same—" Understanding dawned on her. "Oh."

"Yes. Lucius Fox is his... friend. You let him help before. Now, too. Please?"

The commissioner shook her head. "The circumstances were different that time. Are you telling me that you're out of your depth? Because I have no objection to your bringing in the Teen Titans or one of the other teams, if you are. My people are already investigating, as well."

Batgirl shook her head. "Not... same."

"Batgirl!" Harrier shook his head. "Thanks again, Commissioner. We'll be in touch."

Sawyer nodded. She took a step forward. "Batgirl," she extended her hand. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. Batman—the original Batman—would be an asset on this case. But you were at his hearing. You know the terms of his release. I can't countermand those without a very good reason—for example, if he were the only person capable of dealing with the situation. Are you prepared to go on record and tell me that's the case here?"

Batgirl's shoulders slumped in defeat. "No."

"I'm sorry," the commissioner said. She would have withdrawn her hand, but Batgirl took it in her black leather glove and held it for a moment.

"Me, too."

"Good luck."

* * *

The opulence of the corporate boardroom was at complete odds with both the Suicide Slum address and the decrepit façade of the building. A rich damask carpet in black and red covered the floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, the light sending rainbows onto the cherry-finished table.

Seated in a leather executive chair, Derek Powers looked about him, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He recognized many of the others at the table from his visits to the Iceberg and from various news stories: scions of Gotham's crime families, corporate executives, others who were known to have money and power, even if they rarely flaunted it. Many of the people around the table were ordinary in appearance, but there were some standouts, like the mummy in the trench coat a few seats away. He wondered what Intergang would say to them all when they got here.

Next to him, Mr. Fix rose from his seat. "I'll be back in a moment," he grunted.

Powers nodded absently. He'd been a bit surprised to be directed to this address when the message had come to his hotel room. He didn't have a lot of experience in dealing with this sort of crowd and he had no idea what to expect. Everyone seemed to be acting as though they were calm and in control, but here someone was drumming their fingers on the table and there someone was polishing their glasses for the fifth time in ten minutes.

The owner of the Iceberg Lounge, who had taken a seat by the door, squawked into his cell phone and left the room in a hurry. Powers wondered what that had been about. A vibration in his own pocket had him checking his own phone. The text read only "Get out now!"

For the briefest moment, he wondered whether it was someone trying to spook him. Then he realized that most of the real movers and shakers either hadn't shown up or were suddenly nowhere to be found. Trying to appear casual, he tried the boardroom door, half-expecting it to be locked or guarded and wholly relieved when it wasn't.

Once out in the hall, he looked about and saw a hand beckoning to him from a partly-opened stairwell door. He headed toward it, recognizing Fix's sleeve. "What?"

"The room is soundproof," Fix said tersely. "And a carpet that color can hide bloodstains very well."

Powers blinked at him in dawning comprehension. "This is a trap."

"Oh, no, my good man," a new voice spoke up from a flight below. "This is a test. A way to winnow the wheat from the chaff, hmm?"

Powers was about to reply when they heard the gunshots. The stairwell door opened and someone burst through and then slumped to the ground. Blood pooled around him. He groaned, but did not rise.

"Save it!" Fix snapped. "Let's get out of here!"

The owner of the Iceberg had already descended another flight or more. Fix and Powers hurried as quickly as they dared, taking care not to slip on the creaking wooden stairs as they ran.

* * *

As soon as the two men entered the boardroom, False Face knew that his suspicions had been correct. While most of the people already seated were killers, whether they'd given the orders or pulled the triggers themselves, the newcomers were a bit too cool, a bit too detached. They weren't looking for trouble, they _were_ trouble.

They stood facing the closed doors, as a voice emanated from a speaker—a convex circle of wire mesh set in the middle of the conference table. "Welcome to you all. I am pleased that so many of you chose to accept our invitation. In this meeting, I intend to lay out the roles that I see each of you playing in Intergang's Gotham operations." There was a pause. "Certainly, our initial overtures are likely to be met with hostility in some quarters. We need to ensure that such hostility fades quickly. We need to warn those quarters not to interfere. YOU will all serve as that warning."

As the voice finished speaking, the two men in front of the doors pulled assault rifles out from under their trench coats and commenced firing.

False Face approximated a pained cry and fell to the ground, clutching at his side. He took care to knock his head against the table leg as he dropped, at an angle that would rupture the small sac of red liquid that he'd secreted on his temple between the layers of bandages. At the same time, he removed a pin from the lining of his suit jacket pocket and used it to puncture a larger bag that he'd positioned over one kidney. For several long moments, he lay on the carpet with the others, eyes closed, barely daring to breathe, until the doors opened and closed once more, and footsteps receded down the hallway. Then he got up and brushed himself off.

"Amateurs," he sniffed.

"Gardeners," the same voice announced from the middle of the conference table. False Face froze, startled. There was a slow chuckle. "Winning and losing is all part of the game," it continued. "Sometimes, the other players are just a little bit better. Things happen, even to the best players." The voice paused. "Intergang has considerably less patience with those who let greed override good sense and blunder stupidly into peril. Sorry about this little subterfuge, but we do need to weed out some old growth before we can set down new roots in Gotham."

"I... I quite understand," False Face said, feeling somewhat dazed.

"Yes," the voice replied. "Yes, I'm sure you do. Have a safe trip back to Gotham, sir. And tell Dr. Elliot that we applaud his choice in lieutenants, will you?" There was another chuckle and the connection cut off.

False Face waited until his pulse had returned to some semblance of normality before he left the conference room, still trying to let the events he'd just experienced sink in.

* * *

In a private booth at the back of Chez Joey's, three Gotham visitors dug appreciatively into 16-ounce filet mignon steaks, taking care that their hands never touched the metal dishes—Chez Joey's signature repast was presented to clients on plates that had been heated to 500 degrees.

"I miss not watching them prepare it," Powers admitted. "The last time I ate here, it was in the main dining hall, in full view of the open kitchen."

"And full hearing of the other patrons," Cobblepot pointed out.

"I didn't say I was complaining," Derek replied, raising a glass of Cabernet to his lips. "Only comparing."

Mr. Fixx lifted another morsel to his lips. "I'd say we got out of that just in time," he rumbled. The other two men nodded.

"I appreciated the warning," Powers returned. He glanced at Cobblepot, then back to Fixx. "So," he said, "what happens now?"

Cobblepot cut a largish piece of the meat and crammed it into his mouth. "Well," he said, between chews, "I'm coming to appreciate your companion's judgment. If he thought you were worth getting out of that room, perhaps we can come to a mutual agreement."

Powers did his best not to show disgust at Cobblepot's dining habits. "I'm listening."

"Intergang has just delivered a major blow to most of Gotham's prominent... families," the portly businessman said slowly. "Oh, he hasn't destroyed them. The heads—the true heads, at any rate—didn't come to this meeting, but many of their trusted seconds did. Mark my words, sir, they will be hurting. I'm sure that some will consider allying against a common threat, but such coalitions are swift and fleeting. It's only a matter of time before bad blood tears them asunder. They'll be left weaker than before. Then..." he smiled, "then, my organization can sweep in and collect the pieces."

"And Intergang?" Fixx asked delicately. At Penguin's hesitation, the younger man shook his head. "I admit I've been working with them until now, but you see, I'm allergic to double-crosses. When I experience them, I react by developing new friends."

Penguin chuckled. "Most wise, my good sir. To answer your question, I'm more than happy to work under Intergang. I'm sure they'll need _some_ local talent. It's merely good PR. And it might be in their best interest to have," he straightened and cleared his throat self-importantly, "the scion of one of Gotham's own aristocracy firmly in their corner."

"With you taking a cut of operations wherever possible," Fixx stated.

"I've said nothing of the sort," Penguin retorted, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the other two men meaningfully. "Well?"

Fixx nodded. "I'm in."

"As am I," Powers nodded. "What now?"

"Now?" Penguin asked. "We wait and watch for the right opportunity."

* * *

There was silence when Harrier finished talking. His eyes flicked from left to right, pausing briefly on each teammate. "Well?" he asked finally, "Who's in?"

"You're sure he doesn't want us to go easy on them?" Ravager demanded. "Because if that's what he wants, he can damned well forget it."

"I'm sure," Harrier said. "Joker's not going to handle them with kid gloves, just because they're new. Well," he frowned, "actually, Joker sometimes likes to pull something like that because it's random and out of character and unpredictability is part of his charm. But the statement holds for most of the other costumes. The real world isn't going to go easy on rookie cops. Neither should we. Apart from making sure that, at the end of the exercise, they're all still alive and free from serious—or permanent—injury. Nothing that would require a medical absence."

Ravager nodded. "Got it. We can't kill 'em, but we can sure make 'em live through a lot."

"Just remember," Wonder Girl pointed out, "Batman's going to be there watching. The original Batman. The scary one. You do _not_ want to be on his bad side."

Dodge gulped theatrically. Kid Devil winced.

"Is he really that bad?" Static wondered aloud.

Miss Martian nodded. "Ohhhh, yes."

"Remember," Wonder Girl said, "we'll probably be facing about thirty opponents, give or take. They've got the numbers. We've got the training and, in some cases, the meta powers. But. They'll also have Batman as their strategist. On the other hand," she grinned, "we've got Harrier as ours."

Kid Devil cleared his throat. "Is it too late to change teams?"

Ravager giggled. Harrier glowered. "I repeat," he said, pointedly ignoring the question, "who's in? As a Titan?"

Wonder Girl's hand shot up, followed almost immediately by Dodge's. Miss Martian and Static followed suit. After a moment's hesitation, Ravager joined them. Kid Devil sighed. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Anyone wants me I'll be in my room. Updating my will."

"Very funny," Miss Martian laughed.

"Who's kidding?"

"Right," Harrier sighed. "Strategy brainstorming session tonight at eight. Think about what might work and we'll discuss it then. By the time the weekend rolls around, I want to know that we've got a real plan of action. Questions?"

There were none.

"Meeting adjourned."

Most of the team trooped out. Wonder Girl remained. "Are you okay?" she asked, seeing him slowly sink into his chair and press a hand to his forehead.

Tim nodded. "I suppose. I just don't know how any team I lead is going to stand a chance against Batman." He squared his shoulders. "But I guess that's something we're going to find out."

He walked over to a computer console and began typing. "Meanwhile," he sighed, "I've got something else to worry about. If I were Scarecrow, where would I want to hide a couple of kidnapped executives _and_ a zombie production factory?"

* * *

When Bruce returned home, there was a message waiting for him. Before he played it back, he scrolled through the phone memory to see whether he recognized the number. His eyebrows shot up. The call was from a WE line, though not one he knew by heart. Curious, he played it back.

"Um... Mr. Wayne... Bruce, it's Sal Fiorini. I'm not sure if I should be telling you this," the head of building security sounded tense, "but it's occurred to me that you might have some insights that the police won't. Bruce, I was nearly abducted last night. It looks like Lucius might have been taken by whoever made the attempt on me. I thought you might know some people you could call in to investigate..."

Bruce was scribbling notes as he listened to the rest of Sal's message. Mentally, he was swearing a blue streak. As soon as the call ended, he pressed the disconnect button. A moment later, he was dialing another number from memory.

"Commissioner Sawyer," he said, trying not to snarl in her voice mail, "I need to speak with you urgently..."


	41. Chapter 40: On a Latte and a Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> “Just Another Day” written by Brian Yorkey and Tom Kitt. Performed by Alice Ripley on the Next to Normal album (Sh-K-Boom, 2009)

_...It's up to you to hold your house together_  
 _A house you built with patience and with care_  
 _But you're grappling with that gray and rainy weather_  
 _And you're living on a latte and a prayer_

— _Brian Yorkey, Tom Kitt, "Just Another Day"_

# Chapter 40—On a Latte and a Prayer

Commissioner Maggie Sawyer was screening her calls this evening. Like Jim Gordon before her, she had no secretary. Individuals calling the non-emergency police number who selected the "To reach Police Commissioner Sawyer, press seven" option from the automated menu would be routed to a voice mail box. People who needed to reach her directly knew her private number. Those included high-ranking officers, municipal politicians, several friends and lovers who had used her as their emergency contact... and, of course, Bruce Wayne.

She'd been expecting him to call since she'd read the reports from the officers who had rescued Salvatore Fiorini from the zombie last night. Well, of course, it hadn't been an actual zombie. The creature had been barely breathing after taking one bullet to the liver and another to the collarbone. EMTs had been called to the scene and conveyed him to a hospital. After about an hour under anesthetic, his skin had reverted to normal tones from sickly gray and his unconscious form had lost a good measure of its bulk. When last she'd checked, he'd been confirmed in critical but stable condition.

That was more than she could confirm in the case of Lucius Fox.

Ever since Batgirl had asked her to involve Wayne, Sawyer had been waiting for his call. She'd half-hoped he wouldn't find out or would accept that he needed to stay out of this one, but deep down, she'd known that he'd call. And since Wayne's phone always came up as 'Private Number' on her caller ID, she was letting all such phone calls ring to voice mail for the time being.

The call finally came at twenty past ten. She reviewed the message at half-past. Irritation at knowing that she was going to have to call him back warred with relief that the wait was over. She seldom enjoyed telling people things that they didn't want to hear and this situation was no different in that respect.

With a sigh, she headed up to the roof and was glad to find it empty. At times like this, a few minutes outdoors in the crisp night air did wonders for her peace of mind. It was drizzling a bit and the damp mist felt cool on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation for a short time. Then, with a sigh, she headed back to her office to return Wayne's call.

* * *

He wasn't barking orders, Sawyer noted. He wasn't trying to intimidate her. And above all, he wasn't begging or pleading. Unfortunately, that didn't change the answer she had for him. "I'm sorry, Cadet," she said. "It's out of the question."

"Because you already have me jumping through your hoops," Wayne countered bitterly. "You no longer need my goodwill."

Sawyer tried not to rise to the bait, as much as his comment irked her. "Needing and valuing aren't the same thing," she said evenly. "My people are handling the matter. As are yours."

"I'll get the results faster," Bruce shot back.

"Are you prepared to show us how?" Hearing him growl on the other end of the line, she moderated her tone. "Mr. Wayne, when you contacted me less than three months ago, it was a different situation. You'd been keeping a lower profile. You had no affiliation with us, and the media was no longer interested in your activities. In other words, you were old news and your activities were not being scrutinized on a daily basis. Under those circumstances, I was willing to bend the rules. Moreover," her voice softened, "Joker was holding one of your people. I was at your last hearing, Mr. Wayne. It was obvious to anybody with functioning ears or eyes that you consider those young people to be family. I wasn't going to tell a father not to go off in search of his abducted son—not when that father had the equivalent of Special Forces training and then some. And even so, it was a one-time favor pending your acquisition of official sanction—a sanction you are currently in the process of earning. Now, I'm not going to argue about where to draw the line and how closely associated you need to be with an abducted party before I'll consider making another exception. I'm not considering it. I can't. You know as well as I do how the media will spin it if you're found at the scene."

"I don't care about—"

"Unfortunately," she interrupted, "that's a luxury I don't have. If everything goes according to plan, there's no harm done and we might even be able to avoid the press. But if _anything_ goes wrong, from a fleeing suspect leaving property damage in his wake to one of the kidnap victims being injured or killed, there will be inquiries and there will be a public outcry. At that point, I'll need to field some very pointed questions about how things went wrong and whether you were involved. The outcome in that situation won't be something either of us will want to face. I went out on a limb for you once. I'm still out there. And this situation is an axe biting deeply into the branch I'm sitting on. For both our sakes, Mr. Wayne, do not join me on this branch. And above all, do not swing that axe."

There was a long pause. Then, "They have Lucius."

"I know. As I said, your people and mine are working to get him back." She hesitated. "There _may_ be something I can do. It's highly irregular. Unprecedented, I shouldn't wonder. And it's still not what you want, but it's something."

"I'm listening."

"I'm pulling up the current Academy schedule. It says here..." she paused. When she resumed speaking, there was a smile in her voice. "...okay. I see here that you passed the Ethics module last week. That's good. As I recall, that was the one academic class that you didn't pass the first time. And... you have the firing range after lunch this week, just before PT and Parade Drills. That's good. I can work with that."

"Commissioner?"

She took a deep breath. "How open would you be to discussing search and rescue tactics with the task force I've put together to deal with the abduction? It would mean missing some of your Academy day—that's why I'm ensuring that the courses you'll miss are the courses you've already passed. I'll leave it up to you as to whether you want to allow your original marks to stand or whether you can make up the missed classwork on your own time and retake the examinations. Know that, should you choose the latter option, the second grade will stand, even if it should happen that you'd earned a higher mark the first time." She waited for Wayne's response. After about thirty seconds of silence, she spoke again.

"Squad Leader Wayne?"

"When?" Bruce asked.

She smiled, not in triumph, but in relief. "I'll call you back to confirm, but I was thinking tomorrow morning at eight?"

"I'll be there."

* * *

Cass tried to get comfortable, but the unfamiliar surroundings were making her jumpy. Most of the Teen Titans seemed so... young. They were relaxed, unwary, chattering among themselves with an ease that she seldom saw with the people she thought of as family. Dick was sometimes like this and he would probably be like this more often if the others were, she admitted to herself, but she wasn't used to being around people who were this free and easy with one another.

The silver-haired girl with the eyepatch—Ravager, Cass remembered—smiled at her and raised a hand in a friendly wave. She hesitated for a moment. Then she returned the gesture jerkily with an awkward smile. She wasn't here to socialize. She was here because Tim had invited her. He'd said something about working with the Teen Titans to cover more ground. Cass thought she understood the idiom, but she wasn't sure she agreed with it. She usually did better on her own. Teamwork was not one of her strengths.

Tim cleared his throat and the others immediately stopped talking among themselves. "Okay, People," he said. "Thanks to Oracle, here's what we know: the zombie attacks are Scarecrow's latest attempt to spook the city. He's also _probably_ behind the bomb scare at PMWE some time back. And he may be holding two PMWE executives. We need to find out where."

"Well," Kid Devil said, "where have the zombie attacks been happening? Is there a pattern?"

Wonder Girl pointed to the city map on the overhead vid-screen. "They've been happening all over. It looks like Scarecrow's been..." she made a face, "...zombifying people in different parts of the city. We stopped the GSU attack a few nights ago. There've been similar outbreaks at the docks, and in Tricorner, Robinson Park, and Knights Dome."

"The baseball season just started yesterday," Static protested. "And the Knights' home opener is next week."

"Yeah, but there was a Normandy concert three nights ago," Harrier pointed out.

"Normandy?" Ravager sniffed. "She is so yesterday. You mean, people paid to hear her?"

"They did," Harrier nodded. "Luckily, whatever Scarecrow did went off prematurely and affected some of the techies, but they hadn't let the audience inside yet."

"So no zombie army, no panicked stampede," Wonder Girl cut in.

"Yeah, that's something else to note," Harrier said. "The zombies are probably a means to an end: he's not creating them for the heck of it, he's creating them to strike fear."

Behind her mask, Batgirl frowned. "Uh..." Immediately, she wished she hadn't tried to say something. It was one thing among people who knew her, but she knew what she sounded like and she knew what the others were going to think of her.

It was too late. Wonder Girl was smiling in her direction. "Batgirl?"

She took a deep breath. "Uh... cameras. Security cameras. Did they... uh... see something?"

Harrier hesitated. "Oracle's still going over it. The problem is, we don't quite know what we're looking for, yet. The places that have been hit are high-traffic areas and the cameras aren't everywhere. We're not even sure if he's been on the scene or if he's just... couriering his concoctions to the targeted buildings."

"Oh." She could drop it now. Someone else was sure to realize what she had, or she could tell Tim after the meeting. Something made her speak again. "If... courier," she licked her lips to moisten them, "um... I mean, if Scarecrow sent by courier... then wouldn't they be from... same place? From the same place?" she amended.

Ravager sniffed. "I don't think he'd be dumb enough to put a return address on them," she pointed out.

"Wait," Dodge said excitedly. "Even if he didn't, he's probably sending them all from the same location. Maybe we can find a courier depot that's been sending packages to all the places that got hit."

"I don't know," Miss Martian ventured. "They must handle a lot of packages."

"Yes, but if we cross-reference them," Harrier said slowly, "we might find that only one or two sent deliveries to each of the targeted locations on the day they were attacked."

"We still don't know for sure that he's using courier companies," Static pointed out.

"No, we don't. But Scarecrow is hitting places all over the city and he hasn't shown his face yet. Oracle hasn't caught him on camera, in or out of costume. I think Batgirl might be on to something."

"I'll see what I can find," Kid Devil nodded.

"Talk to Oracle," Harrier advised. "Just to make sure that you don't go over ground she's already covered."

"Got it." He grinned at Batgirl. "At least I know where to start looking now."

Behind her mask, Cass smiled back.

* * *

_Earlier..._

In Metropolis, Dick was in a good mood as he finished his training session for the day. In some ways, this was easier than setting up combat drills for his fellow Titans or teaching Bruce a thing or two about acrobatics. In that kind of training, there was always the possibility—however miniscule—of serious injury. A classroom tutorial was a good deal safer. It had its challenges, too, though. Most of the people in his current training class were at least five years his senior. More than a few outranked him in the hierarchy and Dick suspected that they were half-hoping to find out that he was some fresh-out-of-school, wet-behind-the-ears kid who thought he knew everything about corporate security because he'd read a blog-post about it once.

In some ways, Dick reflected, it wasn't all that different from the first time Bruce had taken him to a Justice League meeting when he was twelve. Except then, the condescension had been more good-natured and it hadn't taken much to convince them not to hold his relative youth against him. He half-suspected that Bruce might have been standing behind him and glowering at anybody who tried it.

Still, inside of ten minutes in the conference room, he'd sensed a more positive vibe. He hadn't quite won everyone over and probably wouldn't. The friendly rivalry between Gotham and Metropolis wasn't so friendly in everyone's eyes and there were some people who resented taking instruction from anyone under the age of thirty, no matter how knowledgeable they were. But the ones who had been on the fence, hoping for the best while expecting the worst... those people seemed to have come down on his side. He smiled. He'd been granted a gift for getting along with diverse types of people and he was grateful that it was standing him in good stead now.

He was still smiling when he exited the elevator and spied Clark leaning against one of the marble columns in the lobby. His smile faded quickly when he saw the serious look on his friend's face. "What's up?"

"Something serious," Clark replied. "Do you have somewhere you can go to change?"

Dick sighed. "Cell phones are really putting public phone booths on the endangered species list, aren't they?" He shrugged. "I'm not wearing my suit under my clothes anyhow. I'll change at the hotel."

"I'll fly you."

Dick blinked. "Where are _you_ going to—" A gust of wind blew into his eyes and he shut them on reflex. When he opened them a second later, he saw Superman standing on the sidewalk outside. The Man of Steel winked at him and came inside. "—change...?" he finished his sentence.

Superman smiled. "At high speeds, nobody can see you make a quick dash to the roof."

* * *

"So, what's going on?" Nightwing asked, less than a half hour later, when he and Superman touched down on a Suicide Slum rooftop.

Superman made a face. "Lois decided to be helpful."

The younger man fought back a chuckle. He knew that he should feel sorry for Superman. A little. Maybe. But the expression on his face was simply priceless. "She was pretty helpful last night," he said, trying to stay serious. What's the problem?"

"She remembered another property," Superman sighed. "She didn't enter it into her tablet at the time, probably because she raced off to that location as soon as she heard about it when she was doing that investigative piece. Anyway, when she realized she'd left it off the list she gave you, she decided to check it out herself this morning. I guess she didn't want to admit she'd missed one, unless it was important."

Nightwing blinked. "Why not? It's not like anybody's perfect around here." He swallowed hard, realizing that sometimes people didn't like to hear that their spouses weren't perfect—even when they knew as much themselves. "Um... I mean, oversights happen."

Superman's lips twitched. "She's dedicated that way," he said. His good humor died. "She called me about an hour ago and told me what she found. I figured you'd want to take a look."

"Ah. Wait. If she found it this morning, why did she wait hours before contacting you?"

Superman sighed. "She wanted to get everything she needed for the story first..."

* * *

He smelled the blood, rank and metallic, long before he came upon the bodies. As they walked down the hallway, Dick noted muddy boot-prints on the carpet. The stairwell door at the end of the hall was ajar, blocked by a prone body. Lois was waiting for them outside the conference room. Her face was pale, her expression tight, but she was otherwise composed.

"Any reason why you didn't call the police?" Nightwing asked as they drew nearer.

Lois raised both eyebrows. "I didn't think you'd want them ruining the crime scene."

"I can see you've worked with Bruce before," Nightwing sighed. "Much as I appreciate the thought, they really should have been here sooner. For one thing, they've got a state-of-the-art crime lab. I've got a few gadgets I brought from Gotham that fit into an overnight bag." He gave her a crooked smile. "It's better to let local law enforcement run their tests and I'll hack their systems later."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Superman said, suppressing a smile.

"I appreciate that, too," Nightwing replied, deadpan. He pulled a tiny camera out of a compartment in his boot-top, steeled himself for what he was about to see, and pulled the conference room door open. He managed not to retch when the full effect of the smell hit him.

* * *

_Now..._

"You're serious?" Static said, disbelief plain on his face. "Of all the possible places in Gotham to hang out, Scarecrow thinks Wayne Manor's backyard is the perfect location for a hideout?"

Harrier grinned. "I know it's a big backyard," he said, "but it doesn't extend all the way out to South Darby."

"Which is actually in the northern part of Bristol Township," Kid Devil interjected.

"Which is just south of Darby Township, though," Harrier said. "Anyway, during the No Man's Land, I found out that Batman built a satellite Batcave under Arkham Asylum, so it would be poetic justice if Scarecrow did hole up on the Manor grounds."

"Close enough to be free-verse poetry," Ravager shrugged. "Can we narrow it down further?"

"Well," Kid Devil said, "after spending the last couple of days going over security footage—oh and Harrier, if you talk to Oracle before I do, thank her for me; that program of hers did the job in half the time—"

"Yeah, yeah, spill it already," Dodge said, rolling his eyes.

Kid Devil sighed. "Okay. Each time there's a major zombie outbreak... transformation... whatever you want to call it, about six hours before the first 911 call, there's a car from Giddapango Courier parked outside. Or double-parked," he muttered under his breath, "they don't really care if they're blocking traffic."

"Giddapango?" Wonder Girl said skeptically. "Is that a real company?"

"Yeah. Strictly Greater Gotham area and they charge a lot more than the big ones, but they'll deliver your package within four hours, guaranteed." He smiled. "They also have one shipping center—just next to the G&NE Auxiliary Train Yards." He smiled tightly. "Two miles away, there's a FED-RUSH office. Like I said, that would be a lot cheaper. So, if we're right about how he's distributing the stuff, I'd say he's probably at the train yards."

Miss Martian frowned. "But with all the people who take trains," she said, "wouldn't Scarecrow have attacked the station first?"

Harrier shook his head. "That station hasn't been used in about thirty years. They just keep the rail yards for the old train and subway cars. Actually..." His voice trailed off for a moment. Then his eyes widened. "That's it." He snapped his fingers. "It's got to be. When the Quake hit, most of the station sank into the ground."

"I heard something like that happened to the Manor," Wonder Girl said.

"Not quite. With the Manor," Harrier explained, "the house pretty much fell into the Cave. The station was built on sandy soil, though. Sometimes, when a quake hits, that kind of ground can temporarily liquefy."

"How stable would it be now?" Dodge asked, swallowing hard.

"Well," Wonder Girl said, "the Quake was more than five years ago, and the station hasn't collapsed in on itself yet. Let's hope that luck holds." She smiled at Kid Devil. "Nice work, Eddie."

Miss Martian raised her hand. "Maybe I should do some reconnaissance first," she said. "Let's make sure we know where the captives are."

Harrier nodded. "Do it. If this lead pans out, we're moving in tonight."

* * *

The cage was too narrow to allow Lucius to sit or lie down, so he settled for slumping against the bars. He couldn't relax, though. Apart from a narrow strip of wood about two inches wide, the floor of the cage was covered in spikes. He could stand on his tiptoes and, if he needed to, he could rest the soles of his feet lightly on the spikes—uncomfortable, but still bearable—but that was all he could do safely. He pressed against the bars again and the cage creaked as it swayed slightly on its iron hook. Lucius guessed that he was hanging probably some five feet above the stone floor. In another corner, Paxton sat in a cage too low to allow him to stand and too narrow to allow him to lie down. There was a large aquarium beneath it. As Lucius watched, a small grating slid back in the wall over the tank and a shower of ice cubes poured over the cage and into the aquarium. Paxton flinched as the barrage hit him, but Lucius suspected that it was less from pain than from dread at what was coming next.

Sure enough, a moment later, Paxton's cage dropped abruptly into the aquarium and the executive cried out as he found himself submerged in ice water up to his chest. He sat in the tank, hugging himself, his teeth chattering, until the cage jerked upwards once more.

The door opened and Scarecrow poked his head into the cell. "How are my two songbirds doing?" he chortled. "Mr. Paxton? Staying cozy? And I see we're certainly keeping you on your toes, Mr. Fox."

Lucius gripped a bar in each hand and shook it. "What do you want, Scarecrow?"

Scarecrow reached down, picked up a long metal pole, and smashed it against Lucius's cage. It rocked back and forth and Lucius brought his heels down involuntarily. He gritted his teeth, but a gasp forced its way past them.

"Lester," Scarecrow said playfully, "the new bird has a question. Didn't you tell him what was in store? Show him the ropes, as it were? And the rack, the thumbscrews, the iron maiden...?"

Paxton, still hugging himself as he shivered, cringed. "Lucius, j-just t-tell him what he w-w-wants to know, for p-p-pity's sake!"

Scarecrow rubbed his gloved hands together happily. "Such wise advice. No wonder you held onto him for so many years." He took a step closer to Lucius. "Well?" he snapped. "What can you tell me about the new security measures at PMWE, hmmm?"

Behind square-rimmed glasses, Lucius Fox's eyes grew wide. "Only the most important detail," he smiled. "They were created by Batman."

Scarecrow drew himself up taller with an angry snarl. "What?"

"Batman," Lucius repeated, his smile growing wider. "Oh, I'll be happy to tell you what they _do_ , but as to how they work? I'm not certain our chief of building security understands them fully."

"If you're lying to me..." Scarecrow said slowly.

Lucius shook his head. "I've had a look at the decorations here. I'm not sanguine about my chances of withstanding them. It all boils down to this: if you don't believe me, if you think there's a different answer, odds are, if you put me under enough pressure, I'll eventually say whatever you want me to, just to make the pain stop. But that won't make it the truth. I've just told you the truth. Can you deal with it?"

An inarticulate snarl issued from behind Scarecrow's burlap face mask. Then he straightened up, paced back and forth for a moment or two, and came to a stop, again standing by Fox's cage. "Do you know, Mr. Fox?" he began conversationally, "I do believe that if Batman saw what I was putting the two of you through... he just might decide to share the security specs with me." He rubbed his hands together. "Yes, I think we'll start on that in the morning. Meanwhile..." he lifted a remote control device, pointed it at Lucius's cage and pressed a button. The spikes in the cage floor receded and Lucius sank to his heels and leaned against the rear bars with an audible sigh of relief. Seeming not to notice, Scarecrow danced over to the wall and hit a switch, plunging the room into darkness, "I think you two gentlemen could use a night to refresh yourselves and dream of what the morrow brings. I'll just leave you with a little bedtime story. Voice only, this time. I'll leave the visuals to your imaginations..."

The door shut behind him. A moment later, a pleasant voice began to intone, _"Bastinadoes involve blows with a stick, generally on the soles of the feet..."_

In the dark, Paxton whimpered. Fox winced.

* * *

Miss Martian waited until Scarecrow had moved off down the hall before she contacted the Teen Titans' base. "They're both here and both alive and sane... for now," she whispered into her comm-link. Normally, telepathy would be more secure, but the emotions coming from the cell were strong enough that she was using the bulk of her mental power just to keep her mind shielded. "I think we should move fast if we want to keep it that way."

* * *

Harrier went over the train station schematics and sighed. Thanks to Miss Martian, they knew where the Scarecrow was holding his captives, but getting them out wasn't going to be easy.

When it had first been erected, the South Darby train terminus had been a model of neo-Gothic architecture. It had stood three stories tall, its façade stark against the skyline, overshadowing the industrial complexes, warehouses, and rail yards. The station had been solidly constructed with deep foundations and strong building materials. Had it been built on bedrock, it might well have come through the quake with minimal damage. Unfortunately, as he'd told Wonder Girl, the station had been built on sandy soil that had liquefied. Even so, instead of crumbling, the station had sunk nearly two stories into the earth, coming to rest, more-or-less intact, in the abandoned nickel mine that had been closed down nearly a century earlier.

Surveyors called in later to assess the damage had been amazed to find out how little had been sustained. Of course, with the G&NE Auxiliary no longer in operation, and faced with the prohibitive cost of attempting to either raise the structure or unearth it, the Bristol Township municipal council had voted to seal off the building and allocate funds to those houses and businesses that were still being used.

And now, Scarecrow was using it as a base of operations. The problem was that the structure was huge and the captives were nowhere near the surface opening. If the Teen Titans went in, it was very possible that their presence would be detected, and there was no telling what Scarecrow might do his hostages. Or what shape the Teen Titans might find them in. Miss Martian had given him a detailed description of the room in which Scarecrow was holding them.

Harrier frowned. He hated the idea of bringing Bruce in on this. It wasn't as though the Teen Titans couldn't handle themselves in situations like this. They'd done fine in worse. But Lucius Fox was one of Bruce's few friends in civilian life. And while Tim was no slouch in the strategy and tactics department, that was only because Bruce had taught him nearly everything he knew, and he knew less than half of what Bruce did.

He'd been at this for years. He was well past second-guessing himself and he knew he didn't need Bruce to sign off on his every action. On the other hand, Scarecrow had Lucius. And, while Bruce would never say that any one life was somehow more important than another, he knew that Bruce would want to be involved in this one—or, at least, kept in the loop. Just like Tim would, if it were one of his friends who was missing.

He nodded once to himself. Then he reached for the phone. "I hope I didn't wake you," he said, when Bruce picked up. "I'm presuming you know that Lucius Fox is missing..."

* * *

"I appreciate the heads-up," Bruce said, after hearing Tim out. "Commissioner Sawyer has asked me to speak to her people tomorrow morning."

"That's why you're still up," Tim said sagely.

"More or less," Bruce admitted. "I've been poring over my files, looking for possible leads. Thanks to you and your team, I have one."

"I wasn't sure if you'd want us to move in. Megan thinks Lucius and Lester are okay for now, but we don't know how long that's going to be the case."

Bruce nodded to himself. "Understood," he said aloud. "All right. Is Miss Martian still in position or has she returned to base?"

"Still there."

"Good. And the rest of your people?"

"Should be coming in from patrol about now. I came back early because I was expecting Megan to check in. I just figured I should talk to you before I had everyone head out to South Darby."

Bruce considered. Sawyer should be informed. At the very least, she wouldn't have her people wasting time looking for the missing executives. She'd probably want to send a team in, but the Teen Titans were better equipped to deal with the likes of Scarecrow. On the other hand, should anything go wrong, especially if it could have been foreseen... "Send me a detailed plan. Scarecrow has hostages. Getting them out, particularly if Miss Martian's data is correct, is your priority. Meanwhile, I'll let Sawyer know what you've discovered and why I won't be assisting her people tomorrow."

"Huh?"

Bruce sighed. "Nothing. I'll await your report."

* * *

Maggie Sawyer was silent for a moment after Bruce relayed the information. "I'll dispatch someone to pick up the pieces then," she said finally. "You trust them in the field?"

"With Harrier leading them?" Bruce replied. "Yes."

"All right," she said. "When you get that report from him, forward it to me. I have some officers who'll benefit from a look."

Although her order didn't surprise Bruce in the slightest, his automatic reaction was to refuse. Then he reminded himself that his time at the Academy was leading up to a more cooperative relationship. He sighed inwardly. He didn't like having an oversight body to report to. It was one more change that he wasn't comfortable with. It helped that Sawyer wasn't speaking as though she was pulling rank on him. She was making a reasonable request, even if it wasn't one he would have entertained in the past.

"Very well, Commissioner," he said, keeping the resentment out of his voice.

"Good night, Squad Leader."

* * *

It was not a good night in the derelict train station. The recording droned on, repeating the various torture implements and their uses. When it reached the end, there came a five minute interval of whispers, giggles, screeches, and groans. Then it looped back to the beginning.

"Make it stop!" Paxton pleaded. "For Heaven's sake, make it stop!"

"Lester," the strength in Lucius's voice belied the desperation with which he clung to his cage bars, "he's probably watching us. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm."

"He got that a long time ago!" Paxton snapped. "It doesn't matter whether he sees it or not. I've got a cramp in my legs, I couldn't choke down more than a mouthful of that _swill_ he called dinner, he's got a fan blowing cold air in my face, and I don't care if I'm giving him what he wants to see, as long as he lets me out of here!" He gripped the bars of his cage in both hands and shook, causing the cage to rock gently from side to side. "Let me out! Let me out!"

"Lester..."

And then a new voice spoke in the darkness. "It's going to be okay," it said. "We should have you free soon."

"Who...?" Lucius whispered. It was a woman's voice, and young by the sound of it.

"You can call me Miss Martian," she replied. "The rest of the Teen Titans are on their way here, now. Just hold on a little longer."

Lucius breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness," he said, still whispering.

"What?" Lester barked. "You expect me to trust my life to a bunch of hotheaded teenagers?"

Miss Martian sighed. "If you'd like to take your chances with Scarecrow, I guess we could leave you here."

A loud grating sound echoed harshly in the room. It was followed quickly by an eerie cackle as the lights came on. "Well, you're not quite the hero I was hoping for, my dear," Scarecrow's voice erupted from speakers in each corner of the room, "but I suppose I can make do."

Several stones at the base of each wall of the room flipped up, revealing hose nozzles behind them. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then a light golden liquid streamed forth from each one, spreading quickly over the floor. All three occupants of the room recognized the smell.

Miss Martian's eyes grew wide. "Gasoline!" she whispered in horror.

"What's this?" Scarecrow taunted. "Has the much-vaunted Miss Martian just met her..." the dungeon door panel slid back and a burlap-gloved hand held a small object teasingly through the gap behind, "...match?"


	42. 41. Blue Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> “This Can’t Be Good” written by Timothy DeArmitt and Blake Shelton. Recorded by Blake Shelton on his Pure B.S. album (Warner Nashville, 2007).

_Think I see the blue lights comin' through the woods_  
It’s the sheriff and his posse, this can't be good  
  
Everybody is runnin' like the end of the world is comin'  
With a Buffard T kinda law man closin' in

_—Timothy DeArmitt, Blake Shelton, “This Can’t Be Good”_

**Chapter 41—Blue Lights**

For one instant, M’Gann M’Orzz stared at the flame on the end of the long wooden match in Scarecrow’s hand, frozen in terror. Then training took over and she leaped into the air. Her body elongated, her legs fused together and her arms melted into her torso, while her head grew longer and thinner, tapering to a point. The green javelin that she had become shot smoothly through the slot in the cell door into the corridor and soared upwards, flattening like a pancake against the high ceiling overhead.

“Douse the match, Scarecrow,” she hissed.

The spindly-limbed villain laughed. “Or what, my dear?” he asked. “It seems to me that you have a small problem with open flame. And while I might not be able to reach you at that height, I don’t think you feel particularly safe meeting me at my level. Stalemate.”

Silence greeted him. Then a single droplet fell from the ceiling passing within a scant half-inch of the match.

“I don’t have to,” she called down. “Not when I’m dripping gasoline. And not when you’re holding fire that close to the straws in your costume. You’re right about one thing, though,” she said. “I _do_ have a problem with open flame. That means I won’t be able to get close enough to save you once that match hits dry tinder...”

Scarecrow stared in horrified fascination at the wooden match, now barely one third of its original length. With a cry, he flung it to the ground. It hit a gasoline droplet and a spike of flame shot up several inches.

“Right,” Miss Martian said. “Now...”

A current of hot air blasted from a vent in the ceiling and the green-skinned teen plummeted from the ceiling with an agonized scream, as a woman’s voice sounded over the loudspeakers.

“Dr. Crane! We’re about to have company. Meet me in the catacombs!”

Scarecrow hesitated. He took a step toward the stunned Titan. The voice sounded again. “There’s no time for that! Besides, do you want to be nearby when she recovers? Move it! Her team just arrived and they’re heading your way!”

That was more than enough for Jonathan Crane. He raced down the corridor, rounding the bend just as the rest of the Teen Titans came storming from the direction he’d just come. Ravager chased after him in hot pursuit but returned a few moments later with a disgusted look on her face. “Lost him,” she muttered. “He went down a level and by the time I got there, he was gone.” She bent down to where the rest of the team was clustered around M’Gann. “How is she?”

Miss Martian wasn’t seriously hurt. The heat blast was painful but hadn’t done any real damage and the fall had only knocked the wind out of her. Within a moment of coming to, she was already kicking herself for letting her quarry get away.

“We’ll get him,” Harrier reassured her as he set about jimmying the lock on the torture chamber door. “But first, let’s see about the prisoners.”

“He has an accomplice,” M’Gann said. “A woman. In the... the catacombs.”

“From what you’ve told us about Gotham’s underground, it’s got to be a maze down there,” Wonder Girl exclaimed.

Harrier sighed. “Probably.” He jiggled the lock-pick in his hand and muttered something under his breath when the door didn’t respond.

“You report to Batman with that mouth?” Ravager demanded.

“Would _you_ like to try this?”

Wonder Girl took a deep breath. “Kid Devil, we need a map of the catacombs. Find out if Oracle has one.” She looked at Miss Martian. “Any clue if they’re on foot or in a car?”

The green-skinned girl shook her head.

“Probably on foot for now,” Harrier said absently, as he focused on the lock. “After the Quake, the city cleared the subway tunnels, but most of the other passages are still littered with debris. I mean, they’re stable,” he explained. “It’s not like the ceilings are likely to collapse. But there are a lot of rocks and stuff on the ground. I don’t see anything short of an ATV getting through that mess. Of course, if they make it to the surface...”

Miss Martian smiled. “Even if they do,” she said, “I tagged Scarecrow with a tracer before his accomplice turned on the heat.”

Harrier grinned back. “Well, all right!” he said.

“Then on foot or on the road, they won’t get far,” Static snapped. “Let’s get these geezers out of ye olde house of horrors and get moving.”

* * *

 

A half-hour’s stumbling while running with flashlights brought the Scarecrow and his accomplice to a getaway car, parked several feet away from a tunnel to the outside. “It’s gassed and ready,” the blonde woman gasped. “Get in.”

“Splendid, Doctor Friitawa,” Crane puffed. “I’ll drive. You direct our thralls to discourage pursuit.”

Friitawa jumped into the passenger seat as Crane slammed the driver-side door shut. “That won’t occupy the Titans for long,” she said, typing on her mobile as she spoke. “We only kept the two zombies.”

“Two zombies, one injured teammate, and two hostages—one of whom is likely to be as irritating to those brats as he was to me?” Scarecrow chortled. “It’ll be long enough.”

He gunned the motor and headed down the dirt track that led to the expressway.

* * *

 

“Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” Dodge demanded as the Redbird sped down the Aparo Expressway. “Man, we could’ve been out of there a lot sooner if that old guy had just shut up.”

“Dodge,” Kid Devil warned.

“You could at least have let me leave him on the astral plane!”

“It was tempting,” Harrier admitted. “But no. At least that teleportation trick worked on the zombies.”

“Seriously,” Static said, “they’re accelerating. Can’t we put a little more pedal to the metal?”

Harrier kept his eyes on the road. “We’re not the only drivers on this road,” he pointed out. “Unless Dodge can teleport us—car and all—directly behind Scarecrow, making sure we don’t land on another car _and_ don’t plow into him, this is fast as we get.”

Kid Devil sighed. “Well, maybe the girls can catch up.” His eyes tracked the night sky, where Miss Martian’s white sailor blouse and the gold accents on Wonder Girl’s costume shimmered in the moonlight, guiding them onward.

“You think he knows they’re up there?” Static asked.

As if in answer, the getaway car peeled off the asphalt and onto a dirt track. Harrier expelled a soft breath. “I don’t believe it.” He hit the hands-free comm-link button on the Redbird’s dashboard.

“Wonder Girl. Miss Martian. Break off from pursuit.”

“What?” From the back seat, Ravager echoed Wonder Girl’s incredulous response.

“Break off. Meet us at the picnic area about five hundred yards ahead and I’ll explain.” He closed the channel with a chuckle. “I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.”

“Excuse me?” Static breathed.

Harrier looked away from the road for an instant to flash a smile at the passenger seat. “I know where that track leads. Do you remember when you said that Scarecrow was figuratively hiding out in Bruce’s backyard?” he asked, fighting not to laugh. “Well, things just got literal...”

* * *

 

An intermittent beeping was the first indicator Bruce received that someone had breached the estate perimeter. He was out of bed and running for the cave in seconds. He was just settling in at the security array when every screen went blank. An instant later, Oracle’s glowing electronic visage appeared on each one. Bruce bit back a growl. “This is not a good time.”

“Oh, it’s about to be,” Oracle sounded amused. “Got any pent-up frustrations you need to vent? Purely in self-defense, of course?”

“Get. To. The. Point.” Bruce gritted, even as his fingers began keying the commands that would override her access.

“I had a call from Harrier. Scarecrow just drove through access point A-4 and seems to be tearing up your Chardonnay vineyard. The estate paths aren’t well-lit and he’s pretty much driving cross-country. Probably be within sight of the outbuildings in about five minutes.”

Bruce blinked. A-4 was one of several emergency exits he had for those times when the signal went up but accessing the cave would prove difficult. To the best of his recollection, he’d last used it when he’d needed to slip away during a society party to respond to the signal. Upon opening the door to his study, he’d discovered the vice president of Scheele Industries locked in a passionate embrace with the estranged wife of Alderman Pettigrew. Neither one had noticed him, but from the look of it, they probably wouldn’t have noticed if the draperies had caught fire, either. Judging that a confrontation would only delay him longer (and make it that much easier to pinpoint when he’d disappeared, should anyone miss him), Bruce had quietly closed the study door, gone to the garage, taken one of the four sedans that could convert to a Batmobile at the push of a button, and left via the access point in question. He’d had to get to one of his safe-houses en route to change into costume, but he suspected that it had still been faster than it would have been had he tried shooing the interlopers out of the study.

He hadn’t thought about that access point in a long time. How could Scarecrow have found it? He remembered now. In warmer weather, an ivy curtain would have completely concealed the opening, but at this time of year, the tunnel would be more visible. Likely, Scarecrow didn’t know where he was going. At this hour, all he would have registered was the dirt track connecting the estate with the main road. Bruce began to smile.

“I suppose I _could_ get an early morning workout in,” he mused aloud. “What would the estimated police response time be to a 911 call made from this address?”

“You’re going to let them handle it?” Barbara sounded surprised.

“Only if they arrive _very_ quickly,” Bruce deadpanned.

“Looks like about eight minutes,” Barbara replied.

“Ah.” He sighed. “No, I don’t think they’ll arrive anywhere near fast enough, but I suppose I ought to call them.”

“As any law-abiding citizen should do,” Barbara said primly.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

“Where are we?” Friitawa asked nervously. There were no lights and from the bumps and jolts, she couldn’t even be sure if they were on a road. She thought she could make out trees, their branches barely distinguishable from the night sky, and they seemed to be driving past a hedge or low wall of some kind, but that was all she knew.

“Hopefully where those costumed brats can’t track us!” Scarecrow shot back. “I don’t know where we are, but we have to come out somewh—” The words died on his lips as they both heard the loud bang of metal on metal. It wasn’t until Scarecrow discovered that they were flying backwards that he realized that the car they were driving had been a major component of that bang. The vehicle turned two complete circles in the air, before landing on its side and rolling upside-down.

Behind his mask, Scarecrow groaned and turned to his companion. Seatbelts had probably saved the both of them, but what had caused them to spin out of control in the first place? “Dr. Friitawa?”

His companion turned blearily toward him. “Jonathan?” Then, face flushing, she corrected herself. “Doctor Crane! What happened?”

He struggled to free himself. “We hit something,” he muttered. “I don’t know what.”

“Well, weren’t you paying attention to the road?”

“Of course I was!” Crane snapped, finally releasing the seatbelt. He fell several inches, knocking his head on the roof of the car. “Something just... came up out of nowhere.” He managed to get the door open and ungracefully rolled out. Lurching to his feet, he took a few shaky steps.

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Dr. Friitawa called to him.

Ignoring her, Scarecrow kept walking. She sighed with annoyance and set about getting her own door open.

* * *

 

Watching the security array from the cave, Bruce allowed himself a brief smile. He’d often wondered when he’d have occasion to use the retractable steel bollards, particularly those situated at the farther reaches of the estate. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw a second figure emerge from the overturned vehicle and hurry after Scarecrow. He didn’t need to deal with the sorts of questions that would have arisen had his security systems caused permanent injury. While the circumstances would likely have exonerated him—Scarecrow and his accomplice _were_ trespassing, after all—and Bruce _did_ have reason to believe that they posed a danger to him—he knew full well that there would still have been questions until that verdict came down. It was just as well he wouldn’t have to deal with them.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the two intruders heading in the direction of the old pasture. Now, what surprises did he have there...?

He glanced at one of the security screens and noted the two police cruisers, now less than a mile from the main gate. No time for anything fancy, then, Bruce decided. He simply needed to incapacitate them and let the law take it from there. At least, until such time as he embodied the law himself, he mused. Surprisingly, he found that prospect less irritating than he might have only a short time earlier.

He was almost whistling as he activated the alarm klaxon.

* * *

 

By now, the two trespassers had lost all sense of direction. They were blundering through a wooded area, the alarm wailing in their ears, and hindered at every step by thorny shrubs that snagged at their clothing and by heavy roots underfoot. Friitawa trailed several steps behind Scarecrow and tried not to cry out as the branches of the trees her companion shouldered through sprang back and lashed at her face.

Then, the ground gave way beneath Scarecrow’s feet and he shrieked as he plunged into darkness.

“Professor Crane!” Friitawa screamed.

“Down here. I can’t move...” he called. “Some kind of net.”

“Stay there. I’ll... I’ll get help,” she said.

“Help? From who?” Scarecrow demanded.

His only answer was a loud snap, followed by rustling leaves, and almost immediately by a loud scream. “Doctor Friitawa?”

“Help me!” she cried. “I’m caught!”

Ten minutes later, four police officers and one academy cadet arrived at their position to discover two immobilized criminals: Professor Jonathan Crane entangled in a net stretched several feet below the opening of an old dry well and Dr. Linda Friitawa dangling upside down from a tree branch, one foot caught in a snare trap.

“You know, Mr. Wayne,” one of the officers said, “I think I’m beginning to understand why you’ve been able to keep living here unmolested, despite your past activities being a matter of record.”

Bruce shrugged diffidently. “I’ve always valued my privacy,” he remarked. “Enough to invest in strong security systems, at any rate.”

Standing now with his hands cuffed behind his back and restrained by two other officers, Scarecrow gave a start. “This is your house?”

Bruce smiled his blandest socialite smile. “Well, my land, anyway,” He fought not to laugh at Friitawa’s look of pure horror.

“Mr. Wayne? Did you want to press charges?” one of the officers asked. “Trespassing, property damage... possible criminal mischief...”

Bruce regarded the prisoners for a long moment. “No,” he sighed. “No, I believe that if you check in with your dispatch, you’ll discover that they’re already facing quite enough charges already, pertaining to the recent zombie outbreak and their abduction and forcible confinement of two PMWE executives. Frankly, officer, I think they’re in more than enough legal hot water without my contribution. Particularly since I’m almost positive that the damage they’ve caused here was less malicious and more a case of their being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” For an instant, he dropped the smile. His eyes went flat and he deliberately lowered his voice an octave. “The most wrong place _possible_ , in fact.”

Scarecrow gulped.

One of the officers stifled a laugh. “Sorry these folks disturbed you. I was in the Academy class before yours. Based on that experience, I _know_ you probably need all the sleep you can get.”

“I’ll manage,” Bruce said, affable once more.

“I’m sure. Well... have a good rest of the night, Mr. Wayne. We’ll take care of these two.”

As the officers moved off with their prisoners in tow, Bruce could hear Scarecrow bemoaning his ill fortune in taking a shortcut past Batman’s kitchen window. He smiled. He was going to have a _wonderful_ rest of the night.

* * *

 

“Heard you had some excitement last night,” Captain Alanguilan remarked when Bruce and Brenner reported to the stables after their classes were done.

“Huh?” Brenner glanced at Bruce.

Bruce stifled a sigh and kept his face expressionless. “Yes, sir.”

“At ease, Cadet,” the captain smiled. “My niece was over at your place to collect your trespassers. We talked after she came off duty.”

“Ah,” Bruce nodded. There had only been one woman among the officers, as he recalled—the one who had recently graduated the Academy. “Yes, Scarecrow and his accomplice did pay me an unauthorized visit last night, Sir.”

“Interesting security measures you take,” Alanguilan remarked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you also intend to turn them loose on your fellow cadets this weekend.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up at that. Clearly, the Academy had a _very_ good grapevine. “Sir?”

“Statistically speaking, I’d think they’re at least as likely to encounter security systems and booby-traps as they are meta-crims, wouldn’t you say? Now, I’m not going to pretend you didn’t do good work in the past and you’ve got people out there who are still. The fact remains, when your duty is to serve and to protect, you can’t help but feel you aren’t carrying it out when you’re spending too much time waiting for someone else to step in, when if you knew how to go about it, you could probably handle things yourself.” He smiled. “Let ‘em fight teen heroes who are going to be pulling their punches all you like... but show ‘em how to pick locks and avoid surveillance cameras too. Extra unarmed combat drills and stealth tactics wouldn’t go amiss either.” He nodded to Bruce and then to Brenner. “Carry on, Cadets.”

Bruce watched him leave. Then he turned to Brenner. “Better hurry with the tack. Time’s wasting.”

“Yes, Squad Leader,” Brenner acknowledged smartly. Then, a breath later, “ _Scarecrow_ broke into your house last night?”

“He didn’t get anywhere near that close,” Bruce replied. He was still considering Alanguilan’s words. “I’d intended Saturday to be more of a chance to hone our existing skills in a more relaxed environment.”

“But you’re thinking of stepping it up after what the Captain said?”

Bruce sighed. “Sound out some of the others. If enough people are interested, I’ve no objection. However, we should keep in mind that everything we do on Saturday would also be taking away time that could be spent reviewing the material that we are going to be tested on here. As much as the Captain has a point, I don’t think it’s a good idea to spend a full day learning more advanced tactics and techniques at the cost of failing mandatory courses.”

“Me, Sir? Shouldn’t it be you?”

Bruce shook his head. “This needs to be a free decision. If I make a suggestion, it’s going to be seen to carry more weight, because of my experience. As well as my academy rank.”

“But if it’s coming from me, it’s still going to be your suggestion. It’ll just be... filtered.”

Bruce nodded. “The captain wouldn’t have made the suggestion if he didn’t think it was a good thing,” he clarified. “He isn’t wrong. However, the captain is not going to be tested on the material we’re responsible to cover. Let the others know that the suggestion was his, but make it their choice. While I’m willing to instruct, I’m not about to pressure anyone who might be having enough trouble just staying the regular course. If the message comes from you, I suspect that those who want to decline will find it easier.”

* * *

 

Selina finally managed to get a handle on her laughter after Bruce finished relaying the events of the night before. “I just wish I could have been there!” she managed. “Just for the look on their faces when they realized where they were!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the video chat screen. “Only for that?” he asked.

Her smile dimmed a fraction. “No. No, not only,” she said sighing. “I really was hoping we could be back by tomorrow. Helena’s second birthday won’t be the same without you.”

Bruce nodded. “You realize that if Scarecrow couldn’t get past the Manor’s defenses, there’s a good chance that Intergang would have similar difficulties.”

Selina sighed again. “I was never worried about the Manor’s defenses, but I don’t think it’s healthy for anybody to stay holed up there indefinitely. I took Helena to an indoor kiddy park today. She spent a couple of hours playing... well, not _with_ , but _around_ a bunch of other kids, I got a chance to swap parenting tips with some very nice mothers and fathers, and we stopped off at Burger Barn for supper on the way home. And yes, I know that you’d happily install an indoor park at the Manor for her and we could have ordered from some place that delivered... but a gilded cage is still a cage and I don’t plan on spending an indefinite period inside one.”

Bruce winced. “I understand that,” he admitted. “Far more than I might have three years ago.”

“Bruce...”

He forced a smile. “Dick is in Metropolis. Hopefully, this matter will be resolved sooner rather than later.” He pressed his fingers to the screen.

She copied the gesture. “Hopefully. I wish you could have called earlier, before I had to put her to bed.”

Bruce nodded. “Another time,” he managed.

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes. “I miss you,” she said.

“Likewise.” There was a painful lump in his throat. “I... I have material to review.”

“I’ll let you get to it then,” she said quickly.

“Stay safe.”

“Y-you too.” The screen went dark.

Bruce stared at it for several long moments, before he took a deep breath and reached for his assignments.

* * *

 

Derek Powers took an early flight back to Gotham. He needed time to think. Too much had been changing too fast and he needed to slow down. He’d always had a particular genius for knowing who to latch onto and when to break away and connect with someone new. His stewardship under Lester Paxton had been rewarding for a time, but that time had reached its end. In a safety deposit box in the First Bank of Gotham, he had hardcopies—evidence of some of Paxton’s shadier dealings, squirreled away in case his mentor had ever tried to set him up to take the fall for a failed scheme. So far, he’d never had occasion to use it, but he meant to hold onto the material indefinitely. One day, he might need a favor from the man and, should Paxton seem reluctant to help him, it was only sensible to be ready to provide an added incentive.

He considered his dinner with Cobblepot. The little man’s affected mannerisms and somewhat comical appearance might make him seem inconsequential, but once he’d gotten past the pomposity and superciliousness and actually paid attention to what Cobblepot was saying, he’d realized that there was a keen, calculating mind under that boisterous joviality. The biggest mistake that he could make, Powers thought, would be to discount Cobblepot as some fool of no consequence. Come to think of it, that had been where Paxton had gone wrong, too—taking a façade at face value and worse, ignoring the mounting evidence to the contrary. No, Cobblepot was dangerous. For the moment, they were on the same side, but one day, that would likely change.

As soon as the plane landed, he sent a text to Fixx. _Find out what you can about Oswald Cobblepot. I’d like to learn everything I need to about our new associate._ He waited for the acknowledgement before putting his phone away.

Depending on what Fixx uncovered, Powers thought he might be visiting that safety deposit box again in the not-too-distant future.

* * *

 

Councilor Neal Jandt sat on the leather sofa in his basement and looked at the bottle of scotch on the coffee table before him. Carruthers’ words were still ringing in his ears.

“I’m sorry, Neal. Since you’ve asked me to take an interest, Wayne hasn’t even gone over the speed limit. There’s nothing—and I do mean _nothing_ on his record that could hurt him at that hearing and there’s a hell of a lot that would help him.”

He hadn’t wanted to give up. “Surely, you can come up with _something_ ,” he’d insisted.

There had been a long silence. When Carruthers spoke again, his voice had been measurably colder. “I’m going to assume that you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, what with the troubles with your brother coupled with that new proposal to raise corporate taxes in the downtown core. You must be getting it from all sides. Or maybe I’m misunderstanding you. Because, Councilor, unless I have severely misunderstood you, you’ve just asked me to commit a serious ethics violation to harm the first person you couldn’t intimidate into keeping your younger brother’s activities hushed up.”

“You ungrateful son of a—”

“Neal,” Carruthers cut him off. “I know that’s anger and family loyalty talking, but I’m not going to sit on this line and listen to you swear at me. Calm down. Cool off. Get some perspective on the situation. And let this go.”

“Sid, you can’t do this! He’s got it in for me and my family. Who knows what he’s capable of! He ruined Alvin and now—”

Sid cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Neal, but I will anyway. Wayne went to the mat for your brother. He even brought in police oversight to make sure Alvin got a fair hearing. I’m sorry that the verdict wasn’t to your liking, but that was none of Wayne’s doing. Alvin’s out. Accept it and move on. And Neal... Try not to drown your sorrows. You always were a mean drunk.”

“Don’t you dare hang up the phone on me, Sid! Don’t you...” He broke off when he realized that he was talking to dead air.

So. Now he sat staring at a bottle of scotch and arguing with himself about whether to drink it. He’d tried calling Alvin earlier to tell him not to give up—only to have Michelle tell him that her husband was asleep. At two in the afternoon, ‘asleep’ meant either ‘not sober enough to come to the phone’ or ‘passed out and dead to the world’.

He reached for the bottle. He wasn’t like Alvin, he told himself. He only drank when he was stressed and he was seldom stressed unless he was dealing with the fallout from one of Alvin’s stunts. After the conversation he’d had with Sid, he needed a drink. Hell, anyone would need a drink.

He started to pour out a glass. Then he stopped himself. He was the only one in the house who drank this stuff. He didn’t need a glass. He raised the bottle in a silent toast to his re-election prospects and took a swig.

* * *

 

“...This is a passing grade.” Cass smiled to herself as she turned off the CD. She’d heard the line enough times not to demand endless repetitions as she had in the past—even though this was the first time that the machine had said it to her for a Social Studies section.

She could do this. It wasn’t easy. She’d spent weeks on this section, both with the audio-book study guides and with Dr. Arkham’s drills. At times, she’d felt like giving up. Then she’d told herself furiously that she’d never run from a fight before and she wasn’t going to start now. She could do this. Maybe she couldn’t do it as well as anyone else she knew. Maybe a 420 was only barely a passing grade for the section. But it _was_ a passing grade. Four months ago, she knew that she would have been lucky to have achieved half of that score. She was getting this. Even if she was getting it slowly, she knew that it was sinking in.

She thought about what Dr. Arkham had explained to her about the GED scoring. In order to pass, she needed to score a minimum total of 2250 across the five sections, with no section score below 410. If she scored at least a 450 in each section—math, science, reading, writing, and social studies—she would pass. If she scored between 410 and 440 in one section, she would only pass if her scores in the remaining sections were far enough above 450 to balance the low score and bring her final combined total to 2250 or better.

Cass pressed a hand to her forehead. She was routinely scoring over 580 in math and science now, but some sections on the reading test were dragging her down. The writing section continued to plague her, despite Dr. Arkham’s assurances that she was improving. A 410 in Social Studies was good for her, but she had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to be good enough. She couldn’t count on a pass, she realized, unless she brought her scores in those three sections up to 450 or better.

It wouldn’t be enough to do it once, either, any more than it was enough to be able to defeat any other opponent once. Invariably, someone would seek her out demanding a rematch. And they would come at her with different moves.

Unless, by some incredible good luck, the GED exam that she would write would be comprised of the identical questions as those on the practice test that she had passed, she couldn’t allow a single test score to make her complacent. She needed to keep drilling until she knew the material cold.

She squared her shoulders and reached for another practice sheet. She was nearing the end of the exercises that Dr. Arkham had made up for her. She wondered whether he’d have created more when she met with him again.

Cass closed her eyes, thinking. Dr. Arkham had really been doing so much to help her. She ought to find some way to show her appreciation. As much as she’d come to like and respect him, as much as she thought she had a good idea of the kind of person he was, it occurred to her that she had no idea whatsoever of what kind of gift would mean the most to him. She didn’t know whether he enjoyed art or music or fine coffee. She didn’t even know his favorite color.

She had a strong suspicion, though, that if she asked him about any of this, he’d either retreat behind the defensive shell he’d maintained in the hospital, telling her not to pry into his personal life... or he’d harrumph and tell her that no thanks were necessary. It would do no good for her to try to tell him that they were very necessary—for her. And, she suspected that if he told her no thanks were necessary, his body language would convey a different statement entirely.

That was something Cass had a hard time understanding: if it was normal to want to be thanked, to have your efforts noticed and acknowledged, then why did so many people try to act like they didn’t? And why was being ungrateful considered a bad thing if so many people seemed embarrassed to be shown gratitude?

She massaged her forehead. At least, she could have gratitude that questions like this weren’t going to be on the GED.

As she looked at the first question on the practice sheet, she resolved that she would try to pay closer attention to what Dr. Arkham said in their sessions. Maybe from that, she would be able to glean some hint as to what sort of gift he’d appreciate.

* * *

 

“So you’re not coming back this weekend?” Barbara pouted, trying to hide her genuine disappointment behind an exaggerated sad puppy-dog face.

Dick smiled at the face that looked back at him from his Skrype session and shook his head reluctantly. “Not with what’s just gone down here. I can’t.”

She understood that. Of course she did. Still... “Yeah, I guess there really isn’t anybody else in Metropolis who can handle stuff like that. No cops, no capes...”

For a moment, his smile widened, acknowledging her point. Then he shook his head. “You know there’s more to it than that. Intergang is making a move on Gotham. They’ve just managed to simultaneously tick off every major crime family in Gotham that sent a representative to that meeting. Maybe they think that’ll intimidate any opposition when they try to set up shop, but if they’ve miscalculated, we all know what comes next.”

Barbara pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. “Another mob war,” she said heavily. “More guns on the street.”

“More civilians in the crossfire.”

“The Families will be split between forging alliances to deal with Intergang and jockeying for a bigger piece of the Underworld pie.”

“If only,” Dick said grimly. “More likely scenario,” Dick pointed out, “has Intergang sitting back and waiting until the Families get antsy. Sure they’ll be out for blood, but they’ll get to a point where they won’t be all that particular about whose. The alliances will start to break down as the Families turn on each other. Then, after infighting thins the herd, Intergang sweeps in and picks up the pieces.” He pressed his palm to his laptop screen. “I can’t let that happen, Babs. I’ve got to nip it in the bud here. Maybe Superman and the MPD can contain things, but I can’t afford to count on that.”

He looked at the clock at the bottom of his laptop screen. Superman would be flying by to pick him up soon, which meant he needed to end the call. Something in him rebelled at ending it on a down-note, though. He grinned. “Besides, Gotham was in one piece when I borrowed it from Bruce. I’d like to be able to return it to him in the same condition or better.”


	43. 42. Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> I'm going with Wonder Girl's 'pre-reboot' powers and abilities, where applicable. At this point, I've long given up on trying to bring this AU into line with any canon events post-Infinite Crisis. It doesn't mean I won't introduce something into this fic from later in the timeline if it works and makes sense, but seriously speaking, all bets are off.
> 
> "No Contest" lyrics by Tim Rice and Bjorn Ulvaeus. Performed by Philip Casnoff and Dennis Parlato on the Chess original Broadway Soundtrack album (RCA, 1989).

 

_You take care you don't let_  
Their shenanigans blind you  
And you're wrong to forget  
You've got your country behind you.

_You're a fool if you think you can wave a flag_   
_And inspire some dramatic action_   
_If I want it bad enough then it's in the bag_   
_If I don't you're a mere distraction._

— _Tim Rice, Bjorn Ulvaeus, "No Contest"_

#  **Chapter 42—Shenanigans**

"I don't like it," Laramie repeated. He took a bite out of his hotdog, ignoring the glob of sauerkraut that fell from the bun onto his plate.

Ortega shrugged her shoulders and tried not to snap at her colleague. "Fine. Don't come." She wished that Wayne were here to extend the invitation personally and hear everyone voice their concerns, even though, after Brenner's explanation, she understood why he wasn't. She tried to fan the sauerkraut odor away inconspicuously, but she suspected everyone's eyes were locked on her fluttering fingers. She wasn't going to turn her head to confirm it.

"Look," Laramie said, as a piece of his bun disintegrated, depositing more sauerkraut and a pickle slice onto his plate. "Wayne's inviting us all to his place to either beat up a bunch of kids or get beaten up _by_ a bunch of kids. Neither way is going to end well. Besides, we've got a ton of material to review before Monday's classes." He picked up the food that had fallen and arranged it over the top of what was left of his bun. He wiped his fingers on a napkin.

"So, don't come."

"I'm picking up my kid from his mother's on Sunday and we're going to the Knights game. I don't know if I can afford to waste Saturday in Crest Hill, too."

This time, Norton and Brenner chimed in with Ortega. "Then _don't come!_ "

Laramie surveyed his classmates, meeting each set of eyes in turn. "You're all going?" he demanded. "All of you?" He waved his hand unconsciously, and the pickle slid off again.

There were nods and murmurs of agreement. "But hey," Kotsopoulos shrugged, "if you don't want to join us, nobody's forcing you."

"Right," Laramie sighed. "And if I don't, I might be the only one in the class who won't pick up some pointers from Batman." He shook his head disbelievingly. "You're all going," he repeated. "Fine. Whatever. Wayne Manor, oh-nine-hundred hours, thirty cadets against seven super-powered kids." He rolled his eyes heavenward. "I wonder what could possibly go wrong?" His bun fell apart, leaving him holding two halves of the roll and the meat, while his toppings oozed over bread and fingers, before falling to the plate.

"Everything," Brenner shot back. "Just like what could happen after we graduate and finally get out on the street. Assuming we all graduate," he added in a slightly lower voice. "Might as well try to learn how to deal with it now." He zipped up his jacket, snapped it shut, and swung his knapsack over one shoulder. "Catch you all Saturday. Or not."

The others trooped off, leaving Laramie still shaking his head and staring at the mess that had been his lunch.

* * *

"What happens if something goes wrong?" Dodge demanded. "I mean, like, what if Rose maims one or two of them?"

Ravager whirled toward him so quickly that the weight that dangled from her white braided ponytail tie narrowly missed whipping Kid Devil in the eye. "Excuse you?" she demanded over Eddie's startled yelp.

Dodge flinched, but stood his ground. "Just a little," he gulped. "Like an ear or something."

Ravager turned beseeching eyes toward Wonder Girl. "Could I maim _him_? Just a little? Please?"

Wonder Girl shook her head as she struggled to look stern. "Harrier will probably restate this when he gets here," she said, "but word from on high—or, I guess, since we're talking about an underground bat cave, 'down low'—is that we don't dent the rookies. If we do, we get to explain it to Batman."

"Which one?" Static asked.

"I'm not sure and I don't think it's going to matter. We mess up, we get both of them on our cases. But we're not going to mess up. We've fought non-powered villains before and managed to take them down without killing them or landing them in the hospital. This shouldn't be anything new."

"Have you ever noticed," Miss Martian ventured, "that every time somebody says something like that, it usually turns out to _be_ something new, after all?"

"Yeah, Cassie," Static said. "Sounds like you might have just cursed the unexpected into existence."

"Oh, for the love of—" Wonder Girl bit back an angry retort as the rest of the team burst out laughing. After a moment, she joined them. "Just be careful, guys. Don't hurt 'em too bad, but don't let 'em win, either." She grinned. "After all, we don't want anyone thinking that the Teen Titans are easy marks."

* * *

Lester Paxton had a lot on his mind. His marriage was disintegrating; he wasn't sure that Vivi had even noticed that he was missing. His lawyer wasn't particularly sanguine about the chances of avoiding prison. And the barrage of telephone calls from False Face weren't helping his stress level. And now, according to Scarecrow, it was common knowledge in the Gotham underground that he'd tried to double-cross one of theirs. If the criminals were harassing him now, while he was nominally free, what might they do to him if he were to end up sharing their cellblock? Worse. What if he found himself sharing an actual cell with one of them? He'd heard something a while back about overcrowding at Blackgate and how three—or even four—inmates were assigned to cells intended for no more than two. Surely, the matter had been rectified by now? He hoped.

Paxton tried to tell himself not to worry. Even if he were to be found guilty, he doubted he'd be remanded to Arkham, or even Blackgate. Most likely, he'd end up in some minimum security prison, teaching Introduction to Financial Planning to his fellow inmates, or some such.

Except that he'd never thought that hiring False Face to impersonate Wayne would leave him facing criminal charges in the first place. He'd misjudged the severity of his actions then. Who was to say that he wasn't doing so now?

Even if he did end up in some country club facility, it wouldn't change the fact that Gotham's more colorful citizens would know how to find him. And once he got out, there was no reason to believe that the harassment, the threats, and the blackmail would cease. And how would he ever be able to hold his head up again in polite society?

He closed his eyes for a moment, considering his options. Then he walked over to his book case, extracted a thin volume, consulted the index, and flipped to the relevant page. He skimmed the list, still not fully believing what he was thinking of doing. The bold header at the top of the page helped to bring it home: The United States has no extradition treaty with the following countries...

He shook his head. The Cayman Islands were not on the list. They were a tax haven, but they were also a UK holding. And they were far too close to the United States. He closed his eyes. Paxton had never thought it would come to this, but he wasn't sure how much more suffering he could take—from either side of the law. If he ran, the courts might try and sentence him in absentia, though they probably wouldn't chase him across international boundaries. Even False Face and Scarecrow would probably let him go. However, the courts, the US government, and the underworld probably weren't his biggest worries. Wayne had been a member of the Justice League. Wayne's son had been a Teen Titan. While theoretically, they answered to the UN or—in certain cases—the US government, practically speaking, those teams were accountable to nobody but themselves. They had members who routinely crossed international boundaries with neither a passport nor a second thought. He had to remove himself to some location where they wouldn't think to look and wouldn't stumble over him by chance. There had to be some remote place that was never targeted by megalomaniacal evil geniuses or invading aliens. And, at least this way, he'd never hear the whispers from his fair-weather friends when he showed his face in public.

He lifted his eyebrows at one name near the bottom of the list of countries. Like the Caymans, Vanuatu had favorable tax laws and a tropical climate. They spoke English there, too. True, they also suffered from cyclones and frequent earthquakes, but over the last few months, he'd achieved more than a passing familiarity with storms and upheavals. Maybe this _was_ the answer for him...

* * *

The cadets arrived singly and in groups of two to four. Bruce ushered them into one of the ballrooms, where he'd set up a number of chairs in a circle. At Jim's urging, he'd also set up a buffet table to one side with fruit, cheese, crackers, and mini-muffins.

"Hey," Kotsopoulos demanded. "Where are the donuts?"

Without missing a beat, Bruce shot back, "I've decided to save them for after graduation. Meanwhile..." he pushed open the door to an adjoining kitchen and picked up the final tray from a stainless steel counter. "...Try a bagel."

* * *

Downstairs in the Cave, Tim listened to the voices above with mounting horror. He lunged for the computer and began frantically typing commands.

"What are you—?" Cassie started to ask, but Tim waved her to silence.

"Eddie," he urged, "double check me. Is this right?"

Kid Devil leaned over his shoulder. "Huh? You're running voice analysis? Why?"

"Just tell me if it's Bruce and if you're picking up any signs of duress or... or... possession. Or mind control. Something!"

"I knew it," Rose sighed. "Between college, heroing and co-leading a team, the pressure's finally getting to him." She flung an arm around Tim's shoulders. "But it's okay," she said, with exaggerated melodrama. "Let me show you how to relax, Timmy. I can be good for you. You'll see!"

Virgil clapped his hand to his mouth, trying valiantly to stifle his laughter. Dodge rolled his eyes.

"Um... Rose?" Megan ventured, "I don't think that's what he wants right now."

"Harrier," Kid Devil said, ignoring Rose and Megan, "voice checks out. It's him and if there's anyone else controlling him, it's not something the Cave sensors can pick up."

"But he..."

"He cracked a joke," Rose snapped. "People do that."

"But _he_ doesn't."

"Except he did," Miss Martian pointed out. "And, before you ask me what you were about to ask me, I've already done a telepathic scan and it confirms your findings. It's Mr. Wayne."

"Great," Cassie said. "That means we can stop worrying about him and start worrying about how to take down thirty-odd cadets, one of whom happens to be the original Batman, without roughing them up to the point where they won't be able to make it to class on Monday."

"We've already been over that," Eddie sighed. "At this point, I think we're just going to get more stressed if we keep worrying and second-guessing."

"So," Miss Martian said, "I guess we just sit here and wait for our cue." She smiled brightly. "Can I log into Facespace down here? I want to check my feed."

* * *

Upstairs in the ballroom, Bruce handed out stapled photocopied booklets. "I've provided dossiers on the people you're about to face. This is, by no means, a complete picture. The information contained here is comparable to what a typical police file might hold concerning the average suspect in an investigation. Facts never tell the entire story, but they are a good starting point."

He smiled thinly. "There are seven files. Each one should take about five minutes to skim. I'll add another ten to that. In forty-five minutes, I'll invite the Teen Titans up here and I'll outline the parameters. Start reading."

* * *

"I guess," Tim said, looking a bit distressed, "this is how he intends to give them a fighting chance against us."

"Tell me he's not sharing his protocols," Rose muttered. "Just tell me he's not sharing his protocols."

Cassie smiled uneasily. "Come on, guys. This is Batman we're talking about. Since when does he share anything?"

"Since when does he crack jokes?" Eddie countered. He glanced over to the console, where Megan appeared to be playing some kind of match-three game. "Pull up a weather report. I want to see if hell's frozen over."

"Right after I free the cute baby animals," Megan said, not taking her eyes from the screen.

"Can't you be serious?" Dodge demanded. "Batman's telling them all about us."

Megan pushed her chair away from the console with a long-suffering expression. "Uh... no, he's not. He's telling them _some_ things about us." She sighed. "Guys. They're nervous. I can sense it all the way down here. He's trying to calm them down so they don't freak out and forget their training." She looked at Cassie. "So now, they're going to know that your strength comes from your gauntlets and your speed is in your sandals. Were you planning on letting them get close enough to remove them?"

Cassie shook her head.

"And I know the range of a flamethrower and how high I need to fly to be safe from one. All Batman's doing is making sure that we don't... don't..." She looked at Virgil. "What's the phrase? 'Phone it in'?"

Virgil nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "After all," she grinned, "Are you telling me that we can't take down a bunch of academy cadets, even if they do know a little more about us than they did yesterday?"

"Don't get too complacent," Tim warned. "Bruce is one of those cadets."

Rose sniffed. "So, we take him down first."

There was general laughter.

"What? Seriously." Rose said, reddening. "He doesn't have powers. He's already told us he's not going to be packing any equipment beyond a regular police officer's gear. Yeah, he can plan for stuff and he can think on his feet, but we're going into a free-for-all. That's when plans go to hell. I'm not saying taking out Batman is going to be easy, but there are seven of us to one of him and we all know that he's not going to be hiding behind the other cadets, counting on them to protect him. If anything, it's going to be the other way 'round. We work together, we take him down, and the rest of the class follows."

Tim frowned. "You know," he said, "that's actually not a terrible idea. But if we're going to pull it off, then we need a better plan than 'Everyone charge him at once'."

"Do you have one?" Dodge asked.

"I think," Tim said slowly, "I might be starting to..."

* * *

The two groups sat awkwardly across the room from each other as Bruce laid down the ground rules.

"Each cadet will be issued one of these weapons," he said, lifting a sleek black firearm. "They fire light beams, not bullets. There are five settings."

He gestured to a stack of neatly-folded orange-and-beige coveralls. "When the beams encounter one of these suits, the point of impact will change color. Blue will indicate a superficial hit. Depending on the location of impact and your natural or," he glanced meaningfully at Wonder Girl, "unnatural defenses, you may feel nothing or you may experience a sensation ranging from a tingle to a light sting. Enough hits sustained to the same area in a short period of time will cause the area to change color. When the area turns purple, you will experience a mild shock and, perhaps, some numbness. If it turns red, you are officially out of the exercise. If you lose consciousness, your coverall will turn red. Report back here; there will be coffee and refreshments waiting." He nodded toward the Teen Titans. "These suits are for you. They are calibrated for your bio-signatures, meaning that those of you who are invulnerable will be able to sustain more 'damage' before your suits change color. Those of you who normally carry potentially lethal weaponry," his gaze lingered on Ravager for a moment longer than necessary, "will carry blunted practice versions of same. Or, if you wish, you may carry a light-beam weapon, either instead of, or in addition to your regular armaments. Harrier informs me that you all know how to hold back against non-powered opponents. You are expected to do so."

Dodge raised his hand. "Does that mean that you don't want us using our powers?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm aware of your abilities, Dodge," he said. "To make it fair, should you choose to transport an opponent to the Astral Plane, you may do so, provided that the duration of their stay does not exceed five seconds. Moreover," he added, "from what Raven tells me, your control is sharpest when you are physically touching the person or object you mean to transport. As I'm sure you don't want a repeat of what happened with Scarecrow's thralls near the GSU campus..." he let his voice trail off meaningfully.

Dodge gulped.

"Um... sir?" Static raised his hand. "Uh, that was partly me," he admitted. "If I hadn't frozen everyone to the ground..."

Bruce nodded. "Then you know how to avoid ripping up my estate," he said. "I'm expecting a certain amount of wear-and-tear based on today's activities and you don't need to concern yourselves over that. However, should any part of my holdings end up on the Astral Plane, you'll spend your weekends here working to pay reparations." He raised an eyebrow. "That means that you'll either fix the damage yourselves or come up with the funds to pay a landscaping crew."

"Understood," Harrier said quickly.

"Moving along," Bruce continued, gesturing toward several piles of blue-and-beige coveralls, "the cadets will wear these. You'll find that they're a bit more durable than standard uniforms—roughly analogous to the SWAT team body armor currently in use by the GCPD. The same rules apply as far as the color changes when you are hit. Clear?"

There were nods and murmurs of assent from all assembled.

Bruce nodded back. "I assume that everyone is familiar with Capture the Flag?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "In your packets, you will find a map of the estate on the last page with your territories marked. You'll note that there is a wide expanse of unallocated territory separating you from the opposing team. This is a free zone." He waited for the nods from both teams before he continued. "Within your territory, you will plant your flag in a visible location. Once the exercise commences, you cannot move your own flag. With one exception," he added. "If the opposing team succeeds in capturing your flag, and you are able to retrieve it before they cross back to their own territory, you may then re-plant it in a different location, provided that the new location is also visible." His lips twitched. "Do not bury your flag, wrap rocks in it and sink it in a stream, transport it to the Astral Plane, digest it—"

"So much for my high-fiber diet," one of the cadets quipped.

Miss Martian giggled. Bruce glowered.

"Once you've reached your territory and planted your flag, each team is to set up a confinement zone for any prisoners that you may take. Allocate nine square feet for each potential inmate. You may mark this area by stakes or washable paint. You'll find both in the kits. You may also incorporate existing obstacles, such as fences or hedges. If you are captured, you can only be released from the confinement area if one of your team members is able to reach its boundary and physically take hold of you. While this will free you from the confinement area, note you will still be behind enemy lines and at risk for recapture. Obviously, any teammate who crosses enemy lines to attempt a rescue may be captured in the attempt. You cannot be captured within your own territory, but you can be attacked. You cannot capture others within theirs, but you can attack them. Within the 'free zone', it's no holds barred. When one side is able to bring the other's flag to their home territory, or when all members of a side have been captured or otherwise eliminated, the exercise is over." He paused. "One thing further. There is only one reason why points will not be deducted for killed opponents: there is an unequal number of participants on each team. I'm hardly about to suggest that the life of an academy cadet is less dear than that of a Titan, or vice versa. Were I to ascribe a penalty for a 'kill,' there would be no fair way to score it without cheapening the lives on one side or the other. Therefore," for a moment, Bruce's expression lightened, "I'll interject a degree of realism to the proceedings. When the exercise is over, those participants who score killing shots will complete a report of no fewer than three pages per casualty, justifying their actions, to be submitted to me before you leave." A fleeting smile crossed his lips at the collective murmur of dismay from both sides. "Are there any questions?"

There were none.

"Very well. Both sides remove to home territories and we'll commence in thirty minutes."

* * *

In the cadets' territory, Laramie was taking charge. "We're going to need a roof on the confinement area," he directed. "Remember, some of those kids can fly. We don't want them swooping down to engineer a prison break." He looked at Bruce. "Squad Leader, is there anything we can do to camouflage our brig?"

Bruce considered. "Not totally, no. However, if we set it up under those trees," he gestured toward a grove some yards away, "the branches are thick enough to partially obscure anyone beneath them. And they'll make enough of a roof to discourage aerial rescue missions."

"I'll take it." He frowned for a moment, thinking. "You've worked with those kids before? You know how they fight?"

"I trained their co-leader. I've worked with some members of the current team, though I haven't had an opportunity to observe how they function together."

"Right," Laramie nodded. "But you're probably going to be wisest to any tricks they might pull. That makes you my new head of security."

Ortega sniffed. "Who died and made you king?" she asked.

Bruce held up a hand. "Easy, Ortega," he murmured. Then, to Laramie, "You sound as though you have a plan."

For a moment, uncertainty flashed in the other cadet's eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Not yet," he admitted. "But I'm thinking that with thirty of us to seven of them, we can spare a few cadets for guard detail. With them, every guard they assign cuts their force by about fourteen percent. Every guard we assign? Less than three and a half. That's one advantage we've got out of the gate. Whether it'll be enough when we consider their meta powers is a different story."

"They don't all have meta powers," Brenner noted.

"No," Laramie smiled. "No, they don't, do they? Okay. Wayne, pick out three people for brig detail. Not Brenner, though." He turned to the lanky cadet. "I've seen your range scores. I'm going to need you in the field. Kotsopoulos, Ortega, you're both fast on the track. How about on rough terrain?"

Bruce smiled to himself as Laramie continued talking, thinking out loud, and asking for clarifications where needed. He'd been a bit concerned that the other cadets would be sitting around waiting for him to come up with a plan. He had several, of course, and would volunteer his ideas if asked, but he was glad that Laramie was showing some initiative. The cadet had clearly been paying attention to his classmates' skills and abilities. While he wasn't doing everything as Bruce would have done it, he was making intelligent choices and assigning the others to tasks that played to their respective strengths.

It was a good thing, too. Because Laramie's suspicions were dead right about one thing: even though Bruce had never worked with the current Teen Titans roster, he had some _very_ good ideas about the way they fought. To say nothing of the way they thought...

* * *

"We're agreed, then," Tim said. "If Bruce so much as steps one foot out of his team's territory, Dodge 'ports him to the brig." He glanced at the blond boy. "You're sure it won't take you more than five seconds, right?"

Dodge nodded.

"Otherwise," Tim continued, "we zap him from the air."

Cassie raised an eyebrow. "Uh... _we_?"

"Hey, there's no 'I' in 'team'."

"No," Rose drawled, "but there is an 'm' and an 'e'..."

Eddie clapped a hand over his mouth, but couldn't quite muffle his guffaw. Tim sighed. "Wonder Girl and Miss Martian, if he stays on his base, he's all yours."

"Taking him out _was_ my idea, you know," Rose said. "I think I oughta do the honors."

"Remember," Virgil cautioned, "three-page report."

" _So_ worth it."

Tim rubbed at his mask and told himself that the itching sensation was all in his head. The spirit gum adhesive only bothered him when he was annoyed, as though his emotional irritation needed a physical complement. He also told himself that he was only imagining that his teammates were staring at him as he fought not to peel off his mask and scratch. "I'd let you," he sighed. "But then we'd be down a soldier before we even got started and there are seven of us to thirty of them. We know that Bruce will take any casualties on his side personally, but that won't change the fact that they can afford to lose a couple of people. We can't. So." He surveyed each teammate in turn. "Rose, Eddie, the three of us are going to defend our flag." He gestured behind him, where a scarlet banner hung plainly from a tree branch, some thirty feet high. "I want the metas taking the offensive. You can handle multiple opponents better than we can. Dodge," his expression was serious, "they have to know you can teleport in, grab the flag, and teleport out. Bruce didn't forbid it, which means he's got a plan to deal with you. Be prepared for anything."

"Or maybe he knows there's nothing he can do about it and he's hoping we'll think he's got a plan so we don't try it."

Tim tilted his head and regarded Dodge silently.

"Maybe?" Dodge protested.

Tim said nothing. He simply looked at him.

"Come on, it's possible."

Tim waited. Dodge finally dropped his eyes and thrust his hands into the pockets of his Dodgers uniform shirt. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled. "He probably does have a plan."

Tim ignored him. "Wonder Girl, when the exercise starts, we're going to need aerial reconnaissance. Fly over them, find out where their flag is and how they're defending it. I want to know where their brig is. I—"

Cassie held up her hand. "You do know that Ares is the god of war, right?" she asked. "He _has_ taught me a thing or two about military tactics." Just then, a shrill whistle sounded. She smiled. "That sounded like my cue. Don't worry. I'll be back, quick as I can."

So saying, she rose into the air and took off. Tim watched her go.

"Right. While we're waiting for her to get back, let's shore up our defenses. As soon as we have her intel," he glanced at the three remaining metas, "you guys are up."

* * *

"So, on the plus side," Jim spoke under his breath as he typed his message into Skrype's SMS chat window, "all of this color war business is distracting him from missing his," he paused from speaking and typing for a moment, as he tried to figure out the best way to refer to Selina, "significant other," he typed finally, feeling that it wasn't quite what he wanted to say. 'Lady love' had been his first thought, but tone didn't always come across properly in a text message and quaint old-fashioned terms could sometimes sound sarcastic instead of sincere. 'Significant other' was accurate enough. He continued typing. "...and daughter."

After a moment, a new message appeared. "That's hard. Even when they've grown and flown." Before Jim could start typing a new message, the icon of a quill appeared on the screen. Martha wasn't finished. "You can tell him that he can call me anytime if he wants to talk to someone who understands."

Jim chuckled. "Martha," he said while he typed, "I don't think you know how many ways that suggestion is likely to backfire. First, he'll be annoyed that I'm talking about him behind his back. Granted, I'd still be typing this word-for-word, even if he were standing here now and reading over my shoulder." He frowned. No. Bruce wouldn't dare to... _would he_? After a moment, he added, (Bruce, if you _have_ tapped my system and are reading this conversation, I meant every word I just typed!). Of course, Bruce was upstairs with his company, but that didn't necessarily mean that Jim's computer activity wasn't being duly recorded, to be reviewed at Bruce's convenience.

An emoticon lying on its back and kicking while laughing hysterically appeared on the screen. Jim smiled. "Second," he continued, "Bruce isn't exactly the kind who'll reach out to someone he barely knows and unload on them. Third," his smile grew broader, "my telling him you understand what he's probably going through is only going to lead to his calling up your boy and ordering him to call you more..." his eyebrows shot up. "...often. Or was that your devious plan from the start?"

This time, the emoticon that popped up on his screen sported wings and a halo.

Jim burst into laughter. Now how did he make that first emoticon Martha had used again...?

* * *

Wonder Girl flew slowly over the cadets' territory. She didn't like this. The tree canopy was thick and the cadets were nowhere to be seen. They should have been fortifying their positions or preparing to enter the free zone. For a moment, she wondered whether Batman had chosen this territory because it had access to some underground passage that would allow his team unimpeded access to the Titans' base. She thought better of it. Batman was doing his level best to make this exercise both fair and challenging. He wouldn't tell his people about any such tunnel without letting the Titans know of its existence as well. Whatever surprises the cadets might be preparing for their opponents, Wonder Girl doubted that Batman had shared any sort of 'insider information' with them. At least, she amended, information about the Manor grounds and security defenses. She wished she knew what had been in those dossiers.

She thought she saw a flash of police blue through the branches below and dipped lower.

_Megan?_ she thought. _Are you reading me?_

The answer wasn't long in coming. _Perfectly. What have you got?_

_A lot of natural interference. Wait. Their flag is past the trees, up against the edge of one of the bluffs. They must be counting on us to cut through the wooded area to get to it, but coming from the air, I don't have to. Let me just zoom over._

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever, although it probably only lasted about a minute. _It could be that they planted it there over Batman's objections. It could also be a trap. Be careful._

_I wi—ARGH!_

A beam of light shot through the tree canopy, nailing her in the torso. Startled, she dropped several yards, regaining her equilibrium at a height some feet below the tops of the tallest trees. Almost immediately, another light beam emerged from one of those trees, clipping her leg. Her concentration rattled, she plummeted, glad that her partial invulnerability protected her from being hurt by the branches as she hurtled past.

She landed on the ground, hard enough to knock the wind out of her for a few seconds. She got up, looked herself over, and noticed that there was a bluish-purple stain over her sternum. On her thigh, the stain was far more purple than blue. She grimaced. She'd taken two short-range hits. She wondered if her back was also stained.

"Don't move a muscle," a woman ordered, stepping out from behind a tree. She was training a gun on her. "Now. Put your hands on your head and kneel."

Clearly, someone hadn't read the dossier, Wonder Girl thought. "Like hell," she snapped, tensing her muscles and preparing to leap into the air.

Something snapped behind her and she spun about, overlooking the long branch that another cadet held directly before her ankles. She pitched forward, landing face down in a pool of brackish water. It stank. Coughing and sputtering, she sat up, only to find the woman and four other cadets surrounding her and brandishing their light guns. Overhead, more twigs snapped and a sixth cadet swung lightly down from a low branch. When she saw Wonder Girl, she sighed in relief.

"The information in your dossier _said_ you could handle a fall from that height," she breathed, "but when you dropped, for a minute I wondered if there could have been a mistake."

Yes, there had been a mistake, Wonder Girl thought. She'd been overconfident and it had cost her. Still, she forced herself to smile at the sniper and shake her head. Nobody liked a sore loser and it had been a fair shot.

"Well?" The first woman asked. "Do you want to surrender now and take a chance you'll be rescued? Or would you prefer to gamble you can make it out of here before we zap your suit red?"

With a scowl, Wonder Girl raised her hands. One of the other cadets reached out and plucked her lasso from her belt. "Let's go."

"Don't you have to Mirandize me?" she demanded, as she managed to regain her feet without slipping in the mud.

"Only if we're preparing to interrogate you," another cadet replied calmly. When she turned to face him, he gave her a smile that was almost friendly. "Miranda only applies to testimonial evidence as defined under the Fifth Amendment. Sorry."

"It came up on a pop quiz last week," another one interjected. "So it's still pretty fresh in our minds."

"Oh," she said, flustered. "I thought you have to read it off if you're arresting me."

"Well, usually," the cadet holding her lasso admitted. "Because normally, we _would_ want to question you in that case. But not here. Uh... shall we?" He placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, sure," Wonder Girl muttered. As the cadets guided her through the trees, she tried to appear miserable and reluctant, even as she paid careful attention to landmarks along the way. She was still in mental contact with Miss Martian, which meant that she was currently in an excellent position to spy on the cadets' camp from below the tree canopy.

Maybe this hadn't been part of the plan, but her getting captured early on wasn't such a bad thing after all...

* * *

"Okay," Kid Devil said gently, as he guided two blindfolded cadets toward the Titans' brig. "There's a tree root just ahead. If you kick forward about six inches, you'll bump your feet on it." They did so, nodded, and stepped over it.

Harrier walked forward to greet them. "Report," he said, sounding not unlike his mentor.

Kid Devil squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Caught 'em about fifteen yards into our turf, by the horse pasture."

"Ah. Okay, you know where the confinement area is. And Kid Devil? Nice work. The blindfolds are a good idea."

"Um... it's not so they don't see where I'm taking them," Eddie replied. "You know how my armor's weapon system involves a 'bright light burst effect'? Uh... if they skipped that bit in my dossier, let's just say they know it now."

"We read it," one of the cadets growled. "We just couldn't do much to avoid getting blinded."

Harrier made a sympathetic sound. "It's happened to me a time or two also," he admitted. "Should wear off in a few minutes, though. Pro-tip if you end up in Special Forces one day: night-vision lenses are not always helpful."

"Ouch!" the other cadet exclaimed with a shudder.

Harrier smiled. "Carry on."

He reached out mentally toward Miss Martian. _Well?_

_Letting Cassie guide me is working out well. And I don't think that they know I'm here; I'm disguised as a sparrow._

_Smart_ , Harrier thought appreciatively. _Okay. Listen. I need you to tell Cassie that she's actually of more use to us behind enemy lines. So long as there's no police brutality toward prisoners in custody, let her know that she can do more good where she is. Rose was right. Taking out Bruce has to be the priority._

_I agree,_ Miss Martian replied. _I just need to find him._ Her tone was apologetic. _It's not as easy as I'd hoped it would be. You see, J'onn taught him how to shield his mind from telepathic eavesdroppers. And he was a_ _ **very**_ _good teacher._

_And Bruce has always been a natural at keeping secrets,_ Tim thought with good humor. _Keep at it._

* * *

Wonder Girl paced the confines of the rectangular area like caged tiger. It was ridiculous. There were no walls to hold her, no forcefields, nothing but four powdery white lines that looked like the same sort of stuff a person might use to mark a grass tennis court. "Any chance I can get a stool?" she asked.

One of the cadets—the one who'd explained to her about the Miranda rules—picked up a folding chair and placed it inside the rectangle. "We might need it back if we have a meeting," he said, "but you can use it for now. I'm Jeff, by the way."

"Wonder Girl."

"I know."

"Cadet Maleev," Bruce said, approaching from behind and startling him, "don't get too friendly. If this wasn't a training exercise, you'd need to view any attempt at fraternization or even conversation by a prisoner with suspicion."

Wonder Girl looked from Bruce to Jeff and deliberately batted her eyes. Bruce scowled. Jeff laughed.

"Just be on your guard," Bruce snapped, pivoting on one heel.

Cassie stuck out her tongue behind his back. Then her eyes grew wide.

As Bruce passed a large tree, a low-hanging branch wrapped itself around his throat and constricted. Jeff shouted in alarm, while more branches circled Bruce's torso, pinning his arms to his side. Two more cadets came running, in time to see the branches unwind and Bruce crumple to the ground, his coverall already turning a bright shade of red from collar to trouser-hem.

One cadet drew her light-gun on the tree. The tree vanished. Wonder Girl watched as a sparrow soared skyward, out of range of any weapons on the ground.

"Squad leader!" one cadet exclaimed, bending over Bruce, who was already starting to come around. "Are you all right, sir?"

Bruce seemed to take a moment to think about the question before he nodded and rose carefully to his feet. "Take charge for now, Maleev," he said. "Unless Laramie makes another choice when he gets here. Good luck." He began walking briskly in the direction of the manor.

Laramie came racing up. "What just happened?" he demanded.

Maleev shook his head. "We lost our ace in the hole," he said glumly. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"


	44. 43. Leanings and Findings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Mountains" written by Richie McDonald, Larry Boone, and Paul Nelson. Recorded by Lonestar on their Mountains album (BNA, 2006)

_When you can't lean on no-one else  
That's when you find yourself_

— _Richie McDonald, Larry Boone, Paul Nelson, "Mountains"_

****

**Chapter 43—Leanings and Findings**

As soon as he was well away from the exercise, Bruce quickened his pace, no longer needing to hide his eagerness to get back. He'd been wondering whether the Titans would try to remove his piece from the board early. It was what he would have done in their stead, though he didn't think he'd have been quite that ruthless about it. His lips twitched. Who did he think he was kidding? If he'd been in their place, he would have struck just as swiftly and just as savagely. Besides, he'd been debating whether to ask M'Gann to do something like this in the first place.

The training exercise had never been for his benefit. His morale required no boosting. He wasn't worried about graduating. More to the point, his intention had been to create a scenario where his fellow cadets would think on their feet and adjust when the unexpected occurred—as it invariably did.

There was another reason, too. No matter how many times he replayed the events in his head, no matter how many times he told himself that he wasn't responsible, the deaths of the police officers who had followed him into a bloodbath more than three years earlier still haunted him. He'd done what he thought was necessary then, and perhaps it had been. But the Gotham City police forces had followed him over their own chain of command, and 28 of them had paid the ultimate price. Sometimes, late at night, he wondered whether things would have gone better had they listened to Akins' orders over his. Or if he'd accepted Akins' rebuff, when he'd asked for control of the GCPD and never hijacked the radio waves in the first place. It did no good to remind himself that there still would likely have been casualties, that the death toll might have even been higher, and that, in that scenario, he'd probably be berating himself for _not_ having been able to convince the police forces to follow him.

He needed to know that they could handle themselves in a situation where they were in the forefront and there was nobody there to give them orders. Scratch that. _He_ was curious to know whether they could handle themselves in such a situation. _They_ were the ones who needed to know. And if they couldn't, then they needed to work on it now. At the academy, they had started to teach these sorts of tactics. In a couple of weeks, they would start simulated drills. But those simulators generally dealt with more mundane scenarios. Bruce doubted that they had a program to teach anti-meta tactics. And if he was wrong, then his companions would be that much better prepared.

As for himself, he could already handle himself in those situations. And, thanks to M'Gann's timely intervention, he might even be able to catch the end of his daughter's second birthday party on Skrype.

He was smiling as he entered the house and picked up the phone to call the Wests and ensure that someone would be sitting at their computer to accept his video chat.

* * *

"Daddy!" Helena exclaimed for the fifth time. There was chocolate frosting smeared around her mouth, streaking her bib, and smudging her hands and the lace edging the white puff sleeve of her pink gingham party dress.

"Hi, Helena," Bruce replied, smiling a bit as Selina expertly kept her daughter from mashing a chunk of birthday cake against the computer monitor.

"I can have Wally run a piece over for you," she smiled, "since Helena seems so intent on sharing."

Bruce shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but," he glanced over his shoulder automatically, as he heard the back door open, "the exercise is still going on. It hardly seems polite for me to indulge when I can't share with the others." His lips twitched. "Unless the cake in question serves more than forty."

"Daddy!" Helena exclaimed, reaching out toward the screen again.

"Helena!" Bruce opened his eyes very wide and his daughter giggled.

"No," Selina admitted. "Not unless we're talking about forty _very_ small pieces."

"Squad leader?" a new voice called.

Bruce sighed. "I need to go. We'll talk later."

He turned off the Skrype session and called another security feed onto the central monitor. He frowned. At the moment, that sector was empty. He glanced at the other screens that surrounded him, located a more active sector, and switched the feeds. He'd set this area up for Jim to observe him, back when he'd first been released from Arkham. It was coming in handy now, when he didn't care to invite his classmates into the cave (where he would normally have been monitoring the exercise). "In here, Norton," he called.

A moment later, Peter Norton joined him. For an instant, Bruce wondered whether Helena had somehow tried to feed him cake, as well. Then he realized that his classmate's uniform was smeared, not with chocolate, but with mud. "What happened to you?" he demanded.

Norton gave him a pained smile. "Apart from the mud stains?" he asked. "I went to organize a jailbreak. Getting our people out of the confinement area was easy, but getting back to our turf wasn't. At least, not for me. I'm hoping our guys made it." He sighed. "Pity your horse stables are empty."

Bruce smiled. "During the First World War, British forces procured much of their cavalry from overseas. If I recall my family history, after the Germans sank the _Lusitania_ , my great-grandfather donated every horse he owned to assist with the war effort. The stables have stood empty ever since." He shook his head. "You can change back into your street clothes" He gestured toward a large canvas bag lying in a corner. "Drop what you're wearing in there when you're done."

Norton nodded. "How are we doing?" he asked.

For answer, Bruce gestured toward the surveillance camera array. Norton drew closer. Bruce, noting that his classmate was neither dripping nor tracking mud on the floor, moved aside.

"Hey," Norton exclaimed happily, "looks like they all got back to base okay!"

"Nicely done," Bruce nodded. "There are four cadets in the Titans' brig. I'm not sure Wonder Girl has any desire to be rescued." His voice took on a dry note as the security display showed her in animated conversation with Cadet Maleev.

"You think they...?"

Bruce sighed. "I think she's probably spying behind enemy lines and relaying her findings telepathically to Miss Martian," he said. "However, I don't believe such activity precludes casual flirtations. Or budding friendships."

"Someone should warn Jeff," Norton replied.

"In this case," Bruce said, "I believe experience will prove the best teacher."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door opening once more. A moment later, a thoroughly disgusted—and almost thoroughly scarlet-garbed—Dodge stomped into the room. "Who booby-trapped the flag site?" he demanded.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "What kind of booby-trap?"

"The kind that makes the ground cave in when you teleport onto it," Dodge retorted.

For a moment, Bruce was silent. Then he found the relevant screen and replayed the events. When he was done, he smiled. "It wasn't intended as a booby-trap," he said. "The ground beneath the Manor is honeycombed with caves and tunnels. When I was a boy, I discovered that opening the same way you did—with similar results. Except that instead of sustaining a number of direct hits from opposing forces when I was lying on my back with the wind knocked out of me by my landing, my father rescued me. And inserted a wooden baffle in the opening." His lips twitched. "It would appear that one of my teammates discovered that baffle and chose to remove it."

Dodge made a face. "And I just picked the one lousiest spot to land?"

Bruce's lips twitched once more. "It appears," he said, as he brought the area up on the large monitor and pointed out several features, "that while that might have been true at the outset, since this exercise began, a number of other traps and defenses have been laid." The twitch became a smile. "Laramie was Special Forces before coming to the Academy. I suspect he's had some training in such matters. It's actually rather impressive. I generally prefer something more sophisticated, but I probably shouldn't discount cruder defenses when they're this effective."

Dodge made an irritated noise. Norton laughed.

* * *

Deep in Titans' territory, Cadet Patricia Lee waited for their white-haired guard to continue pacing the base perimeter. "All clear," she said softly. "Go."

Chuck Sienkiewicz frowned. "Let's wait another minute. I don't know how loud the response is going to be."

"Don't leave it too long. She'll be back in a minute. I can't believe they didn't confiscate our radios. Sloppy thinking."

Sienkiewicz rolled his eyes. "You realize it probably means that none of the previous detainees remembered we had them in the first place," he pointed out. "They're not the only sloppy ones." He turned on his radio. "Sienkiewicz to base. Sienkiewicz to base. Listen. Wonder Girl has been feeding information on your defenses to her teammates via telepathy. Exercise caution."

There was a crackle of static that sounded impossibly loud to the cadets' ears, but no Titans came running to investigate. Then, "Acknowledged Sienkiewicz. Got any more intel?"

"She's coming back," Lee called softly. Then, in a louder voice, she called, "Hey. Could we get some water, please? "

On her way over, Ravager shrugged, turned to a large insulated cooler, opened it, and bent down to check its contents.

Sienkiewicz smiled at the short respite. "Can't talk. Over and out." He closed the channel, just as Ravager straightened, holding a plastic bottle.

"You need anything else?" Ravager asked.

The two cadets looked at each other. "No," Lee called. "We're good."

In an undertone, Sienkiewicz added, " _Really_ good."

Lee fought not to smile too broadly, worried that Ravager would know something else was going on. Instead, she twisted the cap off the water bottle that her guard handed her and took a long swig.

* * *

Laramie was reburying a snare trap under a pile of dead leaves when Kotsopoulos approached him. "Ortega said to give this to you," he said, handing over a folded piece of paper.

"What is it?" Laramie asked, accepting it.

"You got me. She wrote out a whole list of things for me to do, ending with handing you this. No clue what it's about."

Laramie's eyebrows shot up. He unfolded the page, read it, frowned, and handed it back. "Have a look."

Kotsopoulos obeyed. "Her handwriting's a little hard to read, isn't it?" he murmured. Then, "Oh, boy."

Laramie nodded and took back the paper. He read it over to himself once more:

_WG in mental contact with MM. I'm hoping giving Kotsopoulos a lot of other tasks to think about, MM won't suspect anything and won't follow when he passes this to you. Ideas?_

Laramie sighed. For several long moments, he held the paper in his hand. Then he smiled. "I believe that there might just be a way to work with this. In about ten minutes, tell Maleev you're relieving him and he's on flag duty. Meanwhile," his tone lightened, "I don't suppose you know how to block a telepath?"

"No."

"Me either. But maybe we can give her something else to think about."

Kotsopoulos shook his head. "You don't think she'll know?"

Laramie's smile turned practically vicious. "Not if the main thought going through your head is, 'Is Miss Martian reading my mind right now?' Because I bet you're already wondering that." His teeth gleamed white in his dark face. "It's something we all should have been wondering from the start. Maybe even think about how you aren't sure how to defend yourself. Try telling yourself to try to think about stupid stuff: nursery rhymes, advertising jingles, major language groups... All I want you to do is hang around Wonder Girl and keep her—and Miss Martian—distracted. Leave the rest to someone who isn't you. You don't need to know who it is. I'll take care of that. You just get ready to relieve Maleev and," he grinned, "think chaotic thoughts."

Kotsopoulos nodded slowly.

* * *

"Copy that, Megan," Harrier said with a smile. He turned to Kid Devil, Ravager and Static. "A couple of cadets found one of the tunnels under the estate. When they checked where it led, they came out on the other side of that stand of trees," he gestured in its direction, "which as you can see is—"

Ravager let loose with a loud expletive. "Only about ten yards from our flag!"

"Right," Harrier confirmed grimly. "Now, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess it's not coincidence that they came out in our territory. The catacombs are a maze and I'm all but certain that Bruce would have sealed off most of the side passages—not to mention the Cave connection. If he left any surface access to the catacombs visible, it's because he wanted it found. Anyway, instead of trying for our flag right then and there, those cadets went back to their base to report and come back with a bigger force."

Kid Devil nodded sagely. Static frowned. "So the tunnels just happen to come out where we've stashed our flag?"

"Yeah," Ravager chimed in. "That's a pretty big coincidence, you ask me."

"There's more than one access point," Harrier said. "I know of three others in our territory and there could be some I don't know about. As a matter of fact, I didn't know about this one. Now..." He smiled. "See those rocks over there?"

The three other teens nodded.

"There's another access point there. I'm thinking... if the three of us wait for the cadets at the mouth of the tunnel and we have Megan waiting at the other access point to block off their retreat..."

"We'll have them bottled up in there!" Static said excitedly. "That'll thin their numbers for sure!"

Harrier nodded. "I'm calling Megan back now. We'd better move into position." He sighed apologetically. "That stand of trees is actually on the edge of an escarpment. It's going to take us a few minutes to climb down to the tunnel mouth and it's going to be steep going."

Ravager got to her feet and started toward the trees. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's move!"

* * *

It was with some trepidation that Brenner and Ortega made their way to the gravel path that marked the beginning of the Titans' territory. "Do not," Ortega ordered, "say anything about it being too quiet. I'm jumpy enough as it is."

A broad grin split Brenner's features, but all he said was, "Yes, Ma'am." He pointed out a twisting path of packed dirt. "It's not the shortest route, but it is the least noisy. As long as they haven't booby-trapped it."

"I'll take least noisy any day," Ortega replied fervently. She consulted her map. "Okay. According to the reports from the cadets who made it back safe after Norton broke them out, their flag is..." her finger stabbed at the map, "...here. And if Maleev's plan works, then the Titans should be..."

Brenner nodded. "Smart. Those trees at the edge of the escarpment will block their seeing what we're up to until it's too late."

"Unless Miss Martian picks up our thoughts. Or decides to fly. Or they've left some kind of nasty surprises."

"What would Batman do?"

Ortega considered. "Probably not play 'Capture the Flag' in the first place," she said dryly. "But leaving that aside, we know his reputation. Contingencies for contingencies and then contingencies for _those_ contingencies. And maybe one day," she admitted, "we'll be able to plan fifty moves ahead too, assuming we live that long. But for now, for today..."she squared her shoulders and took another breath. "For today, let's just focus on being careful, remembering the goal, and hoping for the best." She took another breath. "Okay. As soon as we cross that gravel line, we need to be as quiet as possible. No talking unless it's necessary. Watch where we step. And when we're in range of their flag, get ready to cover me when I break and run for it."

Brenner's salute held no trace of mockery. "Ma'am, yes ma'am."

* * *

Three quarters of a mile east of Brenner and Ortega, Cadet Rachel Jang led a small group of fellow cadets through a thinly-wooded area. The trees would be thicker once they crossed out of the free zone, they knew. "Just go slow," Jang cautioned. "Think about their flag. And only about their flag."

Cadet Stuart cleared his throat. "Why are we taking the long way?" he asked. "If we—"

"Laramie's got a plan," Jang cut him off. "I don't know what it is; I just know we're part of it."

"You didn't think to ask?" This from Thobani. "I mean, what if we're heading right into an ambush?"

Jang sighed. "Then we either end up in their brig or back at the manor."

"And if it were a real situation," Campbell said, "we might be dead."

"And as it is," Jang retorted, "we're up against a telepath. Still think we need to know the whole plan?" Chastened, Campbell looked away. "Uh-huh. Didn't think so. We're cadets. We follow orders unless we've got a damned good reason not to and then, even if we're right... chances are there's going to be fallout." She didn't have to elaborate. While they didn't have all the details on what had gone down over Jandt, they were all aware that Wayne had gone through channels and followed procedure and still been raked over the coals for it.

"Think about their flag," Stuart said slowly. "Thinking... thinking..."

"Walk while you think," Jang said. "Let's keep moving."

* * *

"Shouldn't they be here by now?" Ravager demanded in a harsh whisper. "It feels like we've been waiting here forever."

Harrier gave her a long-suffering sigh. _Megan?_ he thought. _Are you reading them yet?_

The Martian's response was quick, if slightly annoyed. _I would have told you if they were. But I_ _ **should**_ _be picking them up._ Her mental transmission paused. Then, a moment later... _Guys! There's another team coming in about a thousand yards away from me to the east! Four cadets. And still no sign of anyone in the tunnels. Do you want me to fly over?_

Ravager bit off a curse. Surprisingly, Harrier did as well. "Static. Kid Devil," he snapped, "go. Ravager and I will stay here in case that other team's here to draw us away from the tunnel mouth.

"Just you and me?" Rose asked, leaning closer.

"Static's got a flying saucer," Harrier retorted. "Kid Devil has a rocket-powered trident. Do you have anything that can keep up with them?" Ravager looked away. "That's what I thought."

He waited for a quip or smartass remark. When he didn't get one, he turned his head toward her. She was looking up at the escarpment. "You see something?" he asked.

Ravager shook her head. "No. I don't..." this time, she didn't stifle her expletive. "Our flag! It's gone!"

* * *

"Move, move, move!" Brenner urged, as he and Ortega ran. He'd been practically biting his nails while Ortega had wound the flag around its pole and tied it down, but they were making better time without the thing flapping behind them in the wind.

They were out of the Titans' territory and into the free zone, but they wouldn't be safe until they'd crossed back into their own turf. Cutting across open space would save them time, they knew, but Laramie had been emphatic in his instructions. The two veered off to the left, where several tall boulders stood. When they were within twenty feet of them, Cadets Jennifer Lerner and Artie Burns rose from where they'd been crouching behind the rocks. "Pass it to me, Ortega!" Burns grinned, reaching for the flag.

"Stay here," Lerner interjected. "Discourage pursuit."

Brenner nodded as Ortega passed the flag over with a grin of her own. Lerner had placed eighth in the Boston Marathon three years ago. Burns had gotten into college on a Track and Field scholarship and set a Gotham U record for the 5,000 meters in his first year that hadn't been broken yet. Moreover, they were both fresh, while Brenner and Ortega were winded. "Roger that. Good luck."

Ortega looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened as she saw a glimmer of silver and a streak of green approaching from the west. "GO!" she bellowed, raising her firearm. "NOW!"

"Not that one!" Brenner snapped. "Use a flare gun!"

Ortega blinked. Then she smiled again. "That buys them about a minute. We have to stall them," she said, readying the new weapon. "At this point, we're both expendable; the flag has to get back home."

"Agreed."

"So, let's see if we can get them to chase us. And veer off in opposite directions."

Brenner aimed his flare gun upwards at a 45-degree angle and was rewarded by a scream from Miss Martian. She lost altitude, but, with Kid Devil's assistance, managed to stay airborne. Ortega aimed her weapon at Static. Although he tried to shield his eyes, his saucer wobbled erratically as he fought to keep it on course.

"Come on!" Ortega ordered. "Now!" The two sped off in a widening 'V'.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Ravager snapped, taking off after Brenner. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

"Ravager!" Harrier shouted, but his teammate either didn't hear or ignored him. "Damn it!" he groaned. "They haven't got the flag. They..." He looked at his remaining teammates. "Forget them; chase down the flag! M'Gann, Static, Kid Devil, do you copy that?"

Shaky, but affirmative replies came back.

"Are you good to continue?"

This time, the responses were slightly slower in coming, but they were still positive.

"Ravager?"

Still no response. Harrier glowered. "Let's go!" he ordered the others.

* * *

"They're gaining on us!" Lerner panted. "Your turn"

Burns sized up the landmark they were closing on—the next relay point. "Gimme," he said. "And cover me."

The flag was in his hands and he raced off. Lerner readied her firearm. "Good luck," she gasped, knowing he probably hadn't heard her. She turned to face their pursuers. The three in the lead were flying. They ignored her, chasing the flag. She didn't wait to find out if the two on the ground would do the same. She fired.

Harrier jerked and cried out in pain as a pink blotch appeared on his chest. Then Lerner's hand went numb and her gun dropped. She looked down at the appendage and saw a paler pink patch on her glove. Damn it. Seeing that the white-haired teen was training her firearm on her, Lerner raised her hands in surrender.

"Get her back to base," Harrier groaned.

"But..."

"Ravager, they've got the numbers. If we get our flag back, there'll be one less of them to make another attempt. Go!"

Ravager sighed and took hold of Lerner's arm. "Come on," she muttered. "Hey," she said in a friendlier tone as they started the long walk back, "nice shooting."

"You too."

* * *

Burns broke into a huge grin as he approached the relay point to find Parsons and Mazzuccheli waiting. "Give it to Parsons," his hulking classmate directed. "Then get your flares ready. They work better than the other guns on the flyers."

Burns obeyed and looked at the sky. "It's just three of them now?" he asked.

"For now. Static and Ravager are transporting prisoners, but they'll be back. Wonder Girl is in custody. Dodge has been eliminated. Right now? Harrier, Miss Martian, and Kid Devil..." He broke off abruptly. "..Two o'clock high!" He fired his flare gun and immediately shielded his eyes with a cry, as Kid Devil's suit emitted a light-burst of its own.

Miss Martian tumbled to the ground, her coverall sporting patches of dark pink from the impact. Harrier ran to her, yelling at Kid Devil to proceed.

Burns spared a glance behind him. Parsons was running with the flag. She was still fifty yards away from the boundary, but Kid Devil was closing the gap quickly. Parsons seemed to realize this, for she put on a fresh burst of speed, even as she drew her arm back and flung the flagpole overhand. It arced gracefully through the air, coming to rest nearly a hundred and sixty feet away—over the boundary and inside the Cadets' territory.

Cheers sounded from the trees, as Harrier, Kid Devil, and a somewhat-shaky Miss Martian walked up, smiling, their hands extended.

The exercise was over.

* * *

This time, the seating was mixed. It wasn't that easy to tell: the cadets still outnumbered the Teen Titans by a factor of more than three to one, but they all sat together. Wonder Girl and Jeff Maleev were deep in conversation, as were Harrier and Laramie. The latter two were comparing notes on tactics and strategy. Bruce didn't think he needed to strain to hear the other conversation; he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

He cleared his throat and they straightened and sat at attention. He smiled. "One of the challenges of leadership is keeping your head when the unexpected happens." His gaze panned the room slowly. "And it always does. The best you can do is know your adversaries. Learn everything you can, both from research and from your observations in the field. Experience is the best teacher, but also the most unforgiving. So." He nodded to Laramie. "Report."

"What? Verbally?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You didn't score or order any kills, correct?"

Soft chuckles greeted the question and Laramie smiled. "No, Squad Leader."

"Then, yes. Verbally. What was your strategy?"

Laramie cleared his throat. "Well, once we received a radio transmission from one of our people, who'd been captured behind enemy lines—"

Tim gave an angry start. "You didn't confiscate their radios?" he demanded, looking over his shoulder to where Kid Devil was seated.

The other youth looked down. "I didn't think of it."

Bruce held up his hand. "Cadet Laramie has the floor." He nodded to Laramie. "Continue."

"Yes, sir. As I was saying, once we received the transmission, we realized that Wonder Girl was in mental contact with Miss Martian and was relaying everything she could about the layout of our base, our defenses, and any plans she might overhear. It occurred to me that, while I didn't know how we could shield our thoughts from a telepath, we might be able to shield our plans. To that end, I approached various members of our team, telling them only the role that they were to play. If they didn't know the full plan, they couldn't reveal it. I also," he coughed, "noticed that Wonder Girl and Cadet Maleev were friendly. While I had no reason to believe that he was telling her anything about our plans, I made sure to give him incorrect information hoping that either he would inadvertently let something slip, or that—since Miss Martian was reading Wonder Girl's thoughts and Cadet Maleev was in proximity—she might pick up stray thoughts of his, as well." He took a breath. "I'm not sure if telepathy works that way, but the strategy cost nothing to try. We needed the brig guarded. That was Maleev's job. Either nobody was reading his thoughts and he wasn't revealing anything—in which case, having the misinformation harmed no one—or somebody was, which would work to our advantage."

Bruce nodded. A pleased smile flashed across his face for an instant. "For the record, telepathy rarely works that way, but you weren't to have known that. What else?"

"Sir, one of my people discovered a cave that appeared to lead to a network of underground tunnels. I didn't know where they would end, but it occurred to me that if the Titans _thought_ we had a secret route into their territory, we could steer them away from our actual incursion point—"

"Oh, for the love of...!" Static's voice trailed off. "That's got to be the oldest trick in the book!"

Laramie turned to face him. "Yes, well, not everything new is necessarily improved," he retorted with a grin. Laughter rippled behind him as he continued. "So, I had a large force moving in from the west, while a smaller force, comprised of one fast runner and one expert marksman, crossed in from the east and grabbed the flag. On the return trip, I had two teams of fresh runners waiting to relieve the current flag-bearers. Squad Leader, if you'll recall, on our first day of the Academy, we created a group résumé. At that time, I was seated next to Cadet Parsons and I remembered that, like Burns, she had attended Gotham State University on a Track and Field scholarship. However, her forte was the javelin throw. For this reason, I placed her on the final relay team. I had also directed Brenner and Ortega to roll and tie the flag on its pole to minimize wind resistance, in the event that it would become necessary to hurl it the last few yards. Which it did."

Bruce nodded. "Well done."

He nodded to Harrier. "Report."

Tim rose to his feet. "We were cocky," he admitted. "It cost us. We relied too heavily on having a spy behind enemy lines and it didn't occur to us that our own prisoners were also transmitting information. We reasoned that taking you out would break morale and prevent the opposing team from coming up with a winning strategy. We were... seriously wrong. Also," he took a deep breath and turned around, "I'm sorry for calling you out just now, KD. I didn't tell to you confiscate radios; I just assumed you would."

"I should have," Kid Devil admitted.

"Maybe. But I still should have been clearer."

"I should have been smarter."

Norton sighed audibly. "You two aren't going to hug or anything, are you?"

There was general laughter as the two youths shook their heads, smiling.

"Anything else?" Bruce asked, when they'd quieted down once more.

Harrier shook his head. "No, Sir. Except..." he broke into a smile, "you guys put in one heck of a showing and, in all seriousness, I'm glad you're going to be on our side, once you're out in the real world."

There were nods from the rest of the Titans.

Bruce motioned for Tim to sit down. "Ravager," he said, "Before you leave, I'll look to receive three reports from you. "Static, one. Burns, one. Meanwhile," he motioned to the tables, "I expect you've all worked up an appetite. Start with what's there. Pizzas will be arriving shortly." His gaze locked on Harrier's. "Knowing where you went wrong is the first step to knowing how to do better," he said firmly. "And you will. Next time."

Harrier nodded. Then Dodge got up and took a plate and, as though his action was a pre-arranged signal, the others followed suit.

* * *

Bruce was looking out at the stars through the ballroom's French doors when Laramie approached. "Question, Squad Leader?" he asked.

Bruce glanced at him. "One."

"Did you plan it, Sir? Getting taken out early so we'd have to come up with our own strategies?"

Bruce shook his head. "Perhaps, I should have, but no." He smiled. "You did well, though. Extremely well."

Laramie scuffed his boot on the polished wooden floor. "We got lucky. They underestimated us. How often is that going to happen?"

"Often enough," Bruce returned, "but not always. You'll need to anticipate what could go wrong and come up with contingencies. You'll also need to accept that when things go wrong, they will very often go wrong in a way that you did not anticipate."

Laramie nodded. "I guess that was what happened before. Three years ago, I mean. The mobs."

When Bruce shot him a hard look, he found Laramie staring fixedly at the night sky.

"I was thinking of that a bit," Laramie continued. "At the end, when Ravager took out Brenner and Ortega. And... well, when Miss Martian got _you_. It doesn't get easier, does it? Losing people?"

Bruce shook his head. "No."

"That's... good," Laramie said slowly. "I don't think it should. Get easier, I mean."

Bruce was silent for a moment. Then, "I suspect you'll have ample opportunity to experience that for yourself. You did well today. The next time there's a crisis or a combat exercise, they'll look to you for guidance. If someone else has been placed in command, it's likely they'll consult you for advice. Be ready for that."

"What happened out there today was sheer luck," Laramie said. "I can't count on that."

"No," Bruce answered. "No, it wasn't and no, you can't count on it. You demonstrated a capacity for leadership and a talent for adapting short-term tactics to forward a long-term strategy. You can build on that. Though luck will always be a factor," he admitted. "One of many."

"Can we do something like this again? After graduation, I mean; I don't think we'll have time for another full-scale exercise until then, but once we get our first assignments, maybe a repeat exercise would be a good idea."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Harrier approaching them, carrying a slice of Hawaiian pizza on a plate. While he enjoyed the combination of ham and pineapple, he knew that it wasn't Tim's favorite. "We'll discuss that at a later date," he said turning around and flashing Tim a broad smile.

It was a good deal more genuine than the polite society smiles he normally sported at social gatherings.

* * *

In Metropolis, Nightwing watched as Superman curved a metal pole around five Intergang members. As if the thing were a giant twist-tie, he twined the two ends together, securing the criminals. "Who ordered the hit on the Gotham underworld members?" The Man of Steel demanded.

The five men were silent. One smirked. "Don't know what you're talking about, Boy Scout," he said.

"I think you do."

"Yeah, but you don't know it. And torture's not exactly your thing so... yeah, turn us over to the cops; we'll be out on bail before you know it, and..." His voice trailed off as Nightwing stepped into his line of sight.

"You're right," he said softly, his face expressionless. "It's not his thing. It's not usually mine, either. However, your organization is trying to gain a toehold in _my_ city. You've threatened the lives of two people who are very close to me." He held up a nightarang and rested the tip on the thug's cheekbone. The man's smirk dropped away. "Don't worry," he said, his voice almost gentle. "I don't kill either. And if I were so inclined, the big guy would probably just bring you back. But it might be interesting to find out how much you can live through. Don't you think?" he asked, as he held up a taser and turned it on. The thug shrank back against his fellows, trying to get as far from the crackling thread of electricity as he could.

"It was Simp Catelli!" another thug blurted.

Nightwing looked over his shoulder. Superman nodded. "He's one of Mannheim's lieutenants," he said with a disapproving frown. "MPD's been trying to put him away for a while, but they've never been able to connect him to any illegal activity."

"I think this gentleman will be happy to make that connection for them," Nightwing said affably. "Won't you, Sir?"

The second thug gulped and pumped his head vigorously up and down.

Superman placed a hand on Nightwing's shoulder. "Well," he said. "I guess we'd best tell the police where to pick you up." Keeping his grip on Nightwing, Superman steered the young man out of the warehouse. As soon as they were outside, he stepped in front of him.

"Torture, Nightwing? Really?"

Dick sighed. "No, not really. But they didn't know that."

"You sounded pretty convincing."

"Yeah," Dick said. "That's Bruce's training."

"And if he'd called your bluff? Would you have gone through with it?"

Dick started to deny it. Then he thought about what it would have meant, had Selina and Helena been in their car when it exploded. Had he and Harrier been a couple of minutes slower in reaching Bruce's subway safehouse when Intergang had tried to blow the door off its hinges. "I..." He closed his eyes and shook his head, hardly believing what he was saying but knowing that it was the truth. "I... don't know. I just... don't know."


	45. 44. Alliance and Defiance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! “Decisions” written by Tim Becker, Leon Ozug, and Chad Lenig. Recorded by Ascension Theory on their Answers album (Nightmare, 2005). Cass’s GED question taken from the bestgedclasses website.

_Potential connection_  
_A chance to make things right_  
_Alliance, defiance_  
_A hope for things to change_

_—Tim Becker, Leon Ozug, Chad Lenig, “Decisions”_

**Chapter 44—Alliance and Defiance**

The rest of Dick’s Metropolis visit was fairly anticlimactic. Based on the testimony of the thug he’d intimidated, a judge was quick to issue a warrant for Simpson “Simp” Catelli’s arrest. “As you know,” Clark told him, “a reporter never reveals their sources, so I can’t tell you how I found out, but Simp is so scared of ending up in gen pop at Stryker’s that he’s willing to name some extremely significant names.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “That source you can’t reveal wouldn’t by any chance be not so much another person, as a set of ears that become extra keen under a yellow sun, would it?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that hypothesis,” Clark replied, looking down modestly. “However, it is fair to say that Intergang will be going through some major shake-ups. The ripples will probably reach Gotham before too long, if they aren’t there already.”

Dick sighed. “In other words, when Bruce tells me it’s still too soon to advise Selina it’s safe to come back, you’re saying I shouldn’t argue.”

“Not yet. Simp is in protective custody. Argent moved back to Metropolis recently. I’ve asked her to keep an eye on him; make sure nobody gets to him before he can testify. However, even with her watching out for him, we both know that things might not go as smoothly as we hope. If anything should happen to Simp before the other cases go to trial...”

“Yeah,” Dick nodded. “We can’t rush this. It’s just... I don’t get to see my baby sister enough as it is. And Selina’s good for Bruce right now. He’s not the same with her gone, even though he’s the one who arranged it.”

“I understand.”

Dick exhaled. “Anyway, I’d better get back to the hotel and pack up. I’m on the 8AM flight back to Gotham, and if I don’t start getting organized now, I’ll be too rushed and forget something later.”

“I could get you a later flight,” Clark said. “Without a plane, even.”

“Thanks,” Dick laughed, “but someone from PMWE might just be waiting at the airport to see me off. To avoid arousing suspicion, I think I’d better rough it in first class.”

“Safe trip.”

* * *

 

Oswald Cobblepot regarded his underling, his mouth a taut line that revealed nothing of what he was thinking. “Well?” he snapped.

In answer, the hulking enforcer jerked his chin toward a heavy wooden door. “He’s in there, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“And ( _wak!)_ , in what condition?

The other man gave him a sinister smile. “We haven’t started the fun without you, Boss.”

Cobblepot smiled back. Then he headed for the door. In response to his imperious rap, it swung open and two more burly henchmen inclined their heads respectfully as he entered.

Bound to a chair in the middle of the room was a sweating man in his mid-thirties. He was stripped to the waist, revealing sculpted biceps and pecs, and his expression was murderous. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he demanded. “When Mannheim hears about this he’ll—”

Cobblepot chortled menacingly. “Mannheim has his hands full closer to home ( _wak!_ ). It seems that one of his birdies is a rather talkative pigeon. Now _(wak!)_ , I think we both know you’re nowhere near as indispensible as you like to pretend, or he wouldn’t have sent you out here in the first place. Anything I do to you...” He lifted his closed umbrella and gave its tip a savage twist. The tip came off as the center spine extended several inches, becoming a wicked-looking blade. “...will be easily smoothed over by a letter of apology and a bottle of good cognac.” His smile grew vicious as he saw a bead of sweat appear on the captive’s forehead. “I think it’s time we had a frank discussion about Mannheim’s plans for Gotham. The more honest you are, the greater the likelihood you’ll come out of this without visible scars or ( _wak!_ ) other permanent damage. So.” He reached behind him with the umbrella, snagged a stool, dragged it closer, and sat down. Clasping his hands together, he peered through his monocle and said mildly, “I’m sure, my good man, that under the right circumstances, you can be a fascinating conversationalist. One with many intriguing subjects on which you can discourse at length.” He drew closer, smirking a bit when the other man recoiled from the herring and garlic on his breath. “Go ahead,” he coaxed. “Intrigue me...”

* * *

 

He spotted her as soon as he stepped into the arrivals area, long before she rolled forward and started waving. He strode toward her, stooped and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Man, you are the proverbial sight for sore eyes.”

Laughing, Barbara returned the hug. “You saw me on Skrype not even two hours ago!” she exclaimed.

“It was a _long_ ninety-eight minutes,” Dick replied. “Good to be home.”

“Good to have you home,” Barbara said. “I was hoping you’d have popped in sooner.”

“I wanted to, you know I did. But...”

“Yeah.” The Intergang situation had demanded more attention than either of them had expected and it wasn’t as though Barbara had been home twiddling her thumbs either. While he’d been in Metropolis, she’d been helping both the League and the Society with several serious issues—one of which was not quite resolved, yet. Not that they could discuss any of that freely in the crowded airport.

“Let’s go grab your luggage,” Barbara said brightly, “and we’ll catch up on the way home.”

“Catch up?” Dick laughed, trotting to catch up with the wheelchair.

“Well, it _was_ a long ninety-eight minutes...”

* * *

 

Dick was laughing as he reached for the teapot. “They didn’t know what hit ’em, did they?”

“They’ll be better prepared next time,” Barbara grinned back. “Bruce cooked the whole thing up to give the cadets some experience going up against metas, but I think it was good for the Titans, too. I mean...” she looked down, but not in time to hide the pink flush stealing across her cheeks. “You’d think a cop’s daughter would know better, really,” she admitted, “but when we’re out there facing threats, so the police don’t have to... it’s easy to start thinking that we’re doing it because the police aren’t _capable_. One big reason, I think, that Bruce set up the exercise: bad enough when _we_ think that way. If the _police_ think so, too...”

Dick nodded. “We can’t be everywhere, much as we’d like to be. Depending on how much activity there is in the city on a given night, it’s very possible that they could be going toe-to-toe against some of the Costumes.”

“Yeah. At any rate,” Barbara continued, “I think that after last weekend, the Titans aren’t going be thinking that way anymore. They got their butts handed to them by a bunch of trainees, and a good part of the reason why is that they were overconfident and underestimated the competition.” She grinned. “They were good sports about it, though. I think Tim was proud of them.”

“Good.” His smile dropped. “Now, what’s going on with the Families?”

Barbara sighed. “It’s like a country with proportional representation the day after the election: a bunch of small political parties falling over themselves trying to form alliances. So far, it’s been pretty bloodless. I get the feeling that the heads remember the mob war all too well. They’re trying to keep it contained, but it’s a powder keg. Sooner or later, some spark is going to ignite another bloodbath.”

“Unless someone shows up with a hose and starts soaking all that powder,” Dick replied.

“Yes.”

Dick frowned. “In your opinion, who among the Family heads would be most likely to listen to reason and most likely to convince others to do the same?”

Barbara barely had to think about her answer. “Don Enrico Inzerillo. He’s currently heading a six-family coalition, he’s usually deliberate in his actions, and he tries to keep bloodshed minimal, though he will kill—or have others kill for him—if he thinks it necessary.”

“Thanks.” Dick took a sip of his tea, made a face, and reached for the sugar bowl. “I’ll pay a call on him as soon as I have a quiet night, but keep on top of things and let me know if I need to move up the timetable.”

* * *

 

Alex leaned back in his chair and smiled. “So, it sounds as though it went well,” he remarked.

Bruce nodded, a faint smile crossing his own lips. “When I suggested it,” he said, “I think I was concerned that, instead of raising morale, the exercise would lower it. If they lost, I mean. And I _know_ I was concerned that they would automatically look to me for guidance.”

“Did that worry you?” Alex asked. “From our earlier discussions about your need to control, one might guess that you’d want them to look to you.”

Bruce shook his head. “Yes and no. They were worried about facing meta threats in the field. I’m one person. One person with no meta powers of my own. I can’t be everywhere.” His lips twitched. “Although I’m not sorry that certain elements among the population seem to believe I can be.”

“But you can’t believe your own hype.”

“ _I_ know better.” Bruce shook his head. “The one thing I didn’t want was for them to sit back and expect Batman to handle it.”

“Even though, in the past, one might wonder if that was exactly what you wanted in the real world.”

Bruce winced. “Again, I can’t be everywhere. But,” he admitted, “I suppose I did expect the officers to stay back and let me work, if I happened to be close by.”

Alex nodded. “So, what’s different now?”

Bruce was silent for a long moment. “I wonder,” he began slowly. “To do what I do... what I’ve done in the past, I’ve had to justify it to myself. When my parents were murdered, the police were unable to catch the killer. When I began operating as Batman, organized crime had a stranglehold on the city. Police corruption was at an all-time high. I...” he shook his head. “I wonder whether I didn’t just automatically assume that the average police officer was, at best, ineffective, at worst... part of the problem. When Jim Gordon took over, he weeded out the worst of the lot, but I think my overall first impressions remained.”

“That most police officers were... sub-par?”

“I encountered many who weren’t,” Bruce admitted, slumping a bit in his chair, “but I think I always took them as the exception, rather than the rule.” He shook his head. “This past weekend, I saw an entire class of cadets come together and win a friendly competition against a team of highly-trained individuals, some of whom possessed meta powers, others who possessed high-tech weapons and defenses. In some cases, they had both. They won almost entirely on their own, without my help.”

Alex waited. Bruce sighed. “I made the rules. I had to follow them. I got taken out early, leaving the field to the others. And they came together as a team, came up with their own plan, and won.” He frowned. “This time,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t in control. It worked out. But, in the field, they won’t be fighting the Teen Titans. I want to trust them. I want to remember their performance this weekend. But the fact remains, if I don’t step in and someone pays the price...”

“I think you said it yourself a few minutes ago,” Alex remarked. “You can’t be everywhere. I’m going to add my two cents to that: there is a chain of command and right now, you aren’t at the top of it. It’s not all on your shoulders.”

Bruce sighed again. “An easy thing to say from behind a desk. A harder thing to remember in the middle of a showdown.”

Alex nodded. “I can imagine. But then, that’s part of what we’re here to work on.”

Bruce nodded. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m fooling myself about my chances of getting there.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “But then... I think about one of my allies. Batgirl. She had an... abnormal childhood. It’s left her with numerous challenges, not least of which include poor communication skills.” His lips twitched. “I don’t mean my own... problems with... with opening up. She was raised in an environment without the spoken word. I believe she was completely mute until her late teens—not for any medical reason, but simply, because she was never exposed to verbal language. She was never taught to read. She developed a rudimentary sign language and she can read other peoples’ movements, but until she was...” Bruce frowned. He didn’t really know how old Cass was; he’d never seen a birth certificate. Still, he had a good idea. “...Somewhere in the neighborhood of seventeen or eighteen, that was all she had.”

Alex’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re saying that she would have missed most of the development milestones for language and communication. Those are generally difficult to pick up as an adult. Extremely difficult.”

“I know,” Bruce nodded. “And she did have some help of a kind not... commonly available. A telepath was able to...” he frowned, thinking about how to phrase it, “to kick-start the language center of her brain. He gave her comprehension and vocabulary, though she had to learn the grammar and syntax for herself. And it’s only in the last year or so that she’s managed to read. Slowly. She’s studying for her GED now. She’ll be taking it with accommodations made for her reading disability, but I’ve seen her struggle to master the material. All of the material; she never studied mathematics or science either, and I’m not positive she had any concept of social studies whatsoever before opening her study guide. Barbara has sent me some of her essay attempts. With the Academy course load, I haven’t always had time to read them, but I’ve looked at several. They are... remarkable, for someone who was still struggling with the alphabet last year.”

Bruce sighed. “She is pushing herself to learn in roughly ten months a curriculum that takes most people four years. And from the reports I’m getting, she’s succeeding. She may not be _excelling_ , at least,” he smiled, “not according to the objective benchmarks set by those who designed the test. But I do believe that she will pass it. And two years ago, she could neither write nor recognize her own name.”

He let out another breath. “I’m not competing with her, not exactly. You don’t need to repeat to me that everybody has their own challenges, and it’s not right to compare mine to hers. That’s not what I’m doing. But every time I feel myself growing frustrated with the Academy, with the circumstances that have forced me to enroll, with my... issues, with this past year as an outpatient...” his lips curved in a faint smile, “I find that if I can remember to take a mental step back for a moment and think about her challenges, I can get a better perspective on my own.” He looked away, a bit embarrassed at having said so much. “At least, it makes it easier to stay the course.”

“It sounds like it,” Alex said. “And there’s nothing wrong with a little inspiration. As far as other coping mechanisms, I believe that some time back, you mentioned meditation? How has that been working for you?”

* * *

 

Cass yanked her computer keyboard loose and hurled it across the room. It hit a weight machine with a muted bang, rebounded, and landed intact on the mat.

“Um...” an embarrassed voice called from the doorway, “did I forget your birthday or something?”

“Dodge?” Cass asked incredulously as her eyes took in the blond boy in the modified baseball uniform. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

Dodge stepped into the room. “So you didn’t just chuck that thing at me,” he said, walking over to pick it up. He brought it to her.

Cass accepted it with a slight smile. “If I did,” she said, “wouldn’t miss.” Her smile fell away. “GED. Social studies. Too much to remember.”

“Yeah?” Dodge walked over to the computer. “What kind of stuff?”

“Um...” She frowned, trying to remember. “Um... Alien and Sedition Acts?”

For a moment, Dodge’s frown matched her own. “That sounds familiar,” he admitted. “That was... who? Jefferson?”

Cass pulled the headphones out of her computer and replayed the question on speaker so Dodge could hear it.

_“Which of the following is not an aspect of the Alien and Sedition Acts passed by congress in 1798 and signed into law by President Adams?”_

Dodge slapped his forehead. “Adams! I knew it was one of the guys who signed the Declaration of Independence. I just couldn’t remember which one!”

“Sh!” Cass hissed. “You missed choices.” She directed the software to replay the answers.

_“One: New powers to deport foreigners. Two: Make it challenging for new immigrants to vote. Three: Prohibition of public opposition to government. Four: High sales tax on foreign goods.”_

Cass made a face as she paused the screen reader. “I can’t make it... sink in.”

Dodge frowned. “Wait. ‘Aliens’ means... well, today, it usually means people from other planets, but back then, it meant people from other countries. And ‘sedition’... I think that’s treason. Like leading a revolution!” He snapped his fingers. “Yeah. These acts were drafted because after the French Revolution, the US was in a kind of... not exactly an official war, but close... with France. The government said the new laws were supposed to be good for national security, but a lot of people thought they were mostly to keep the government in power.”

“Oh,” Cass said softly. “Okay. I... think I understand. But... the question? Which answer?”

Dodge smiled. “Well, the government’s support came mostly from the people whose families had been living in America for a long time. Immigrants tended to support the other parties.”

Cass remembered something. “Immigrants can’t... vote. Not until citizens.”

“Right. But if you’re the government and you think that as soon as these people get the vote, the first chance they get, they’re going to vote you out of office... What can you do to make it harder for them?”

Cass blinked. “Make it hard for them to vote. So that’s... Answer two is not wrong answer!”

“Right. What else?”

This time, Cass replied with more confidence. “Scare them. Make them think if they are against government it could be...” What was that word again? “Sedition. So... So I think... Answers One and Three are also right. So wrong answer would be Four: High sales tax on foreign goods.”

Dodge nodded vigorously. “I think so, too. I mean, maybe there _was_ a high sales tax on foreign goods, but you don’t put that in with a bunch of laws designed to keep immigrants down. You put it in with the economy or... or... the budget or something.”

 Cass pressed her lips together. “These laws... acts...” she shook her head. “I don’t... Dodge? _I_ am immigrant. Alien. These are not... fair.”

“Yeah,” Dodge nodded. “I know. My family came over after the Second World War. I’m just third generation.”

“What?” Cass blinked at the unfamiliar term.

The boy laughed. “It means my grandparents immigrated here; they’re first generation to be American citizens. Then my parents are second. Then’s me and Rory; we’re third. But except for Native Americans, we all immigrated here. It’s just that the longer your family lives here, I guess it becomes easier to forget that when a new group wants to come in.”

“Oh.”

Dodge smiled. “If it helps, most of those laws didn’t last more than three years. And they got enough people riled up that Adams actually lost the 1800 election to Jefferson.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Dodge continued, “with some of these questions, even if you don’t know the answer, you can kind of work it out.”

Cass hesitated. “You can stay?” she asked slowly. “Help more?”

Dodge grinned.

* * *

 

“You’re on your own from here on out,” Bruce remarked, as he and Brenner led their mounts into the police stables. “I’d recommend finding time to practice, but you’ve got the basics now. Just keep working at it and you’ll do fine.”

Brenner smiled. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I really appreciate your taking the time to...”

Bruce cut him off. “I didn’t do it for you, Brenner. I did it because I think we’ve all run enough laps and performed enough push-ups without being assigned more because someone couldn’t keep pace with the rest of the squad. My ulterior motivation just happened to work out in your favor.”

“Yes, sir,” Brenner repeated in the same tone of voice. As he led his horse into the stall, he added in an undertone, “In a pig’s eye, sir.”

* * *

 

When Bruce snapped his head to look at him, Brenner was pointedly whistling as he brushed the big brown mare. He decided to let the matter rest.

Bruce had quickly gotten used to the semi-ostracism practiced by most of his fellow cadets and some of his instructors since he’d blown the whistle on Jandt. While some, like Laramie and Farnham had been more forthcoming with jibes and snide remarks, most of the others had pretty much ignored him. They weren’t obvious about it. In fact, Bruce might have believed that it was all in his head. Except that somehow, no matter where he sat in the cafeteria, there was always empty space at the table on either side, across from him, and, when his back wasn’t to a wall, behind him. Between classes, when the cadets had a few minutes to stand around and talk, they did so in small knots, leaving him on the outside.

There were three exceptions. He wouldn’t have considered them friends, though. As his fellow squad leader, Ortega often bounced ideas off of him. And outside of class, she was quick to ask for his help with covering the material. Norton and Brenner made a point of trying to stand up for him—not that he needed, wanted, or expected it—and that might have made it easier, had Bruce been one to invite small talk. Instead, while he did appreciate their efforts, he considered the relationships to be ‘friendly’, but he didn’t think of them as ‘friends’. He knew that they’d be better off if they left him alone, like most of the other cadets, and he didn’t do anything to encourage their overtures, in hope that they’d figure it out sooner, rather than later.

For the most part, he threw himself into his classwork, focused on not doing anything to earn a collective punishment, and told himself that the way others treated him was irrelevant. Often enough, he believed it. It was easier if he didn’t pay more attention to his surroundings than he had to. His academy world consisted of classes, quizzes, and drills, and he couldn’t afford time for socializing.

It took him until Wednesday morning—four days after the Capture the Flag event—to realize that Laramie had just wished him a good morning as he passed by. That, in fact, he’d been hearing similar greetings directed at him every day this week and it hadn’t registered. He told himself it meant nothing. He wasn’t here to be popular. He was here as a means to an end. No more, no less.

Even so, when lunchtime rolled around and Kotsopoulos slid into the seat across from him, mumbling a question about whether it was taken, Bruce’s smile was a good deal more genuine than the one he’d been affecting for weeks to show that he wasn’t bothered by all the cold shoulders. “Uh... no,” he replied. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” He tore open the cellophane packet of saltines and crumbled them into his soup. “How do you think you did on the Radio Communication Codes pop quiz?”

* * *

 

“So anyway,” Barbara continued, “that’s where things stand now. I’m sorry you’re hearing it from me, but...”

On the vid-screen, Selina shifted Helena from one thigh to the other. “I know,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. “Bruce won’t tell me until he knows he’s not raising my hopes for nothing.”

“Basically,” Barbara sighed. “I just figured you could use some good news, even if it’s not as good as it could be.”

Selina shook her head. “Somehow,” she said, “I don’t think I can call ‘sitting on the verge of Mob War II’ any kind of good news.”

Chastened, Barbara felt her face grow warm. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking that with Intergang in disarray, they’d leave you alone...”

“...But if Gotham turns into another battlefield between the Families,” Selina finished, “it won’t be any safer.”

Helena suddenly beamed at the vid screen. “Bawba!” she exclaimed. “Hi!”

Barbara laughed. “Hi, Helena,” she replied, speaking a bit more loudly and slowly. A voice in her mind demanded to know why she wasn’t just talking normally. She stifled it, thinking with a measure of pride that she, at least, hadn’t resorted to baby talk.

“Hi, Bawba!” Helena repeated. “Hi!”

“Hi!” Barbara waved. Then, glancing again at Selina, while still smiling at the child on her lap, she continued, “Dick is going to try to talk to Inzerillo. He seems like the least trigger-happy of the lot.”

Selina nodded. “Enrico’s no saint, but he can be made to see reason... if he doesn’t let his ambitions override his commonsense. He’d like nothing better than to run the Underworld. If he eliminates Batman, the families will probably fall in behind him... and Penguin won’t be in much of a position to oppose.”

“You think Dick could be walking into a trap.”

Selina shook her head. “I didn’t say that. Frankly, I doubt that Enrico is _planning_ to take out Batman. He’s not going to order a hit or... or put a price on his head. But if Batman happens to call on him and Enrico thinks he can catch him off-guard... Let’s just say the man is capable of making a spur-of-the-moment decision and it might not be the one you’re hoping for.”

Barbara nodded. “I’ll pass your warning on. Meanwhile... stay safe.”

“You, too.”

* * *

 

Hush listened to False Face’s report without interrupting once. When his doppelganger was done, Hush exhaled slowly. “I appreciate your coming around to tell me this in person,” he said. “It’s becoming far too easy for too many parties to tap other lines of communication.”

“What do you think?” False Face asked. “Should we take up Intergang’s invitation?”

“You sound dubious.”

False Face snorted. “They tried to kill me in cold blood and succeeded with a good many others. I’m finding it hard to be dispassionate.”

“They make war that they may live in peace,” Hush replied. “But there is a matter of timing to consider.”

False Face nodded slowly. “They’ve ticked off a lot of people with that stunt. We shouldn’t get involved until we see how the chips are going to fall.”

“Exactly,” Hush nodded back. “Right now, those chips are still in the wind. Let’s wait until they settle. The more players removed from the board now, the fewer we’ll need to expend resources taking out later. I’m in no great hurry. Let’s just sit back and enjoy the show.”

* * *

 

In times like these, Enrico Inzerillo made a point of surrounding himself with the best protection his money could buy. In addition to loyal members of his family, he had an arrangement with one of the yakuza groups operating in Gotham that could best be termed a mutual defense pact. Street gangs knew that they would be more or less left alone, providing they served as his eyes and ears. He didn’t like dealing with mercenaries. He wanted people who were loyal to him, or at least, indebted. Preferably both. Still, with the situation as tense as it was, he’d laid aside his scruples and hired outsiders to swell his ranks.

He was no longer concerned with assassination. However, he was well aware that no matter how good his protection was, there were circumstances under which they could not be relied upon.

There was a commotion going on at the front of the warehouse. Even in his office, behind the main storage area, he could hear gunshots. There were muffled thuds punctuated by grunts and cries of pain, the steel-on-steel clang of what was probably the impact of a gun on a shelf support.

Inzerillo sighed to himself. He might have a lot of good people on his payroll, but he knew when they were outclassed. He beckoned to one of his lieutenants to draw closer and, when the man did so, he said, “Make sure that everyone who needs medical attention gets it. And give the mercenaries an extra twenty per cent on top.” If money commanded their loyalty, he needed them to stay loyal. Injuries earned while defending an uncaring employer could sometimes lead to a rethinking of priorities. He couldn’t afford that right now. Not when he knew that most of the people targeting him did _not_ subscribe to a no-kill policy.

The door burst open. Inzerillo quickly held up a hand, warning his bodyguards to stand down, as Batman stalked into the room.

“I trust you didn’t hurt them too badly,” Inzerillo said dryly.

Batman smiled. “Not unless they tried to hurt me first. We need to talk, Enrico.”

Inzerillo was silent for a long moment. “Usually,” he said finally, his voice as dispassionate as if he’d been giving directions to a tourist, “a man wants to talk, he goes through channels. Makes an appointment. My guys aren’t trigger-happy. They would’ve passed on your request, if you’d made it. Instead, you barge into my place of business, you disrupt my enterprises, and you attack the people I hire to defend me.” He regarded Batman with a tense frown. “So,” he sighed. “What is it you want?”

For a moment, Inzerillo actually thought that the Bat was embarrassed, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. The Bat took a step forward, his cape swirling ominously behind him. Then he took a breath. “An alliance.”

“Come again?” Inzerillo said, trying to cover his surprise.

Batman nodded. “You know what’s coming just as surely as I do. I don’t think anybody wants a repeat of that summer, nearly four years ago.”

“We’ve taken measures,” Inzerillo replied calmly. “It won’t happen.”

“How many lives are you willing to bet on that?” Batman asked.

“Why come to me? Why not Bressi or Falcone?”

Batman smiled. “I thought about it. They might. But you and me, Enrico? We’ve had our differences, but it’s never been personal. I figured you’d at least hear me out. Things are tense. It’s not going to take much of a spark to ignite an inferno. I’m trying to keep things contained, just like you are, but our chances improve if we work together. Besides, neither one of us wants Intergang to come in and take over, right?”

Inzerillo considered. Then he laughed. “They’ve really got you running scared, don’t they? Me? I’m not too worried. See, I don’t think they can afford to come in right now, considering what’s been going on in Metropolis. Now, you’re right about one thing: the city is a powder keg. Thanks to the stunt they pulled, there is a power vacuum in the city right now, and there are plenty of people hoping to fill it. But see, when the chips are down,” he smiled, “I’ve got a feeling I’ll be in a pretty strong position. After all,” he continued, as his bodyguards cocked their guns and trained them on Batman, “I doubt anybody’s going to seriously want to take on the family that snuffed the Bat.”


	46. 45: Forboding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Reference is made to Nightwing Vol. 2 #93 and the subsequent Mobbed Up TPB. "Wrestle with the Devil" written by Jim Steinman and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Performed by the original London cast on the Whistle Down the Wind album (Verve, 1999).

 

 _He's there in the reflections on the river skimming by_  
He's there in the clouds as they blacken the sky  
He's there in your bedroom, He can crawl into your dreams

_He's anything he wants to be, but he's never what he seems_

_He's there in the foreboding, you feel in your bones_

_He's there in the graveyard, chipping names on the stones_

_He's there in your memories, turning good times into bad_  
_He's there in the future, that you wish you never had_

_No matter what you do, he's coming after you_  
_So wrestle with the devil_

— _Jim Steinman, Andrew Lloyd Webber "Wrestle with the Devil"_

 

**Chapter 45—Forboding**

Time seemed to slow down as Batman assessed the situation. Two men behind him. Two more flanking Inzerillo. All of them brandishing Glocks. From the way they were standing, Batman doubted that they had any real fighting skills. They could probably throw—or take—a punch or two, but they didn't have much beyond brute strength. And the guns, of course. Inzerillo might or might not be packing something, but everything Batman knew about body language told him that the mobster would be unlikely to draw his weapon unless he believed that his own life was in danger. He smiled.

He raised his hands calmly and sighed in resignation. "I tried," he said sadly. Then he pressed his thumbs into the palms of his gloves, releasing two batarangs into his hands. They were small—only three inches wide—but razor sharp. He flung them at the two guards flanking Inzerillo, then whirled to face the others, and discharged two more. His aim was true; the 'rangs sank into his attacker's hands, causing the men to cry out and drop the guns.

Batman leaped to the attack, reflecting that it had been a good idea to modify the gauntlets of the original Bat-suit to create the spring-release system for the mini-'rangs. If he'd tried for the larger ones in his belt, the gunmen would likely have opened fire before he could have reached them. Instead, the fight was over, nearly before it had started.

When the four bodyguards were subdued and lying on the ground in various states of consciousness, Batman turned and regarded a suddenly nervous Inzerillo. "I guess," he said softly, "I _would_ be better served forming an alliance elsewhere." He noted that the mob boss was sweating and nonchalantly extracted a handkerchief from a belt compartment. "Here." He dropped it on the desk.

"Um... Batman," Inzerillo almost managed to control his stammer, "on second thought, maybe we could—"

"Yeah, we could, Enrico," Batman admitted. "But you know what they say about how your first instincts are usually your best ones."

"Well, let's just say that my first instinct was to take you up on the offer, but then I had second thoughts."

Batman smiled. "I didn't mean _your_ instincts, Enrico. I had a suspicion you might pull something like this when I came in. I decided to give you a chance. But see, I've got another suspicion. One that says that, right now? You'll agree to anything and at the first opportunity, you'll stick a knife in my back. I think I'm going with that instinct." His smile widened. "And a different alliance. But, hey. You don't give me any trouble and I'll show you the same courtesy." He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, voluminous cape swirling behind him.

As he turned the knob, Inzerillo shouted, "Someone shoot the Bat!"

Batman sighed. "And there's that double-cross I was talking about. Guess I was wrong about the knife part, though." He whipped his cape in front of him, using the Kevlar to shield his face from the gunfire. "...And the back part," he added as an afterthought.

He sent a batarang flying toward the light switch, plunging the warehouse into darkness. At the same time, he flipped the switch on the wall by the door, doing the same for the inner office.

In the darkness, Enrico Inzerillo winced as he heard more thuds, grunts, and cries of pain. When someone managed to turn the lights back on, Batman had vanished.

* * *

Barbara was in her office, her hands flying from one keyboard to the next, when she heard the telltale scrape of a grappling hook catching the cornice above her open window. A moment later, Batman landed on her sill and slid inside.

"Scratch Inzerillo," he announced with a sigh. "Better yet, get one of Selina's furry friends to do it. Preferably one residing in a wildlife preserve."

Barbara rolled toward him, her concerned expression rapidly giving way to a sympathetic smile. "Could've gone better, huh, Current Bat Wonder?"

He pulled off the cowl and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. "You could say that," he admitted. He filled her in briefly on his evening.

"But you're okay?" Barbara demanded when he was done.

"Yeah," Dick said with a tired smile. "I just hope the next family I talk to is a bit more ready to listen. Otherwise, it starts to become a joke." He made a face. " _I_ start to become a joke. Or worse."

Barbara took a deep breath. "I know it's a sore spot, but whatever happened to the Tevis family?"

Dick shook his head emphatically. "No way in _hell_."

"Okay, it was just a thought." She frowned. "How did you manage to get away from them anyway? I mean, nobody _ever_ leaves the mob, once they're in."

Dick's eyebrows shot up. "You seriously don't know?"

"Hey," Barbara snapped defensively. "I was dealing— _we_ were dealing with a lot of other stuff at the time. You know, Bruce getting arrested, Hush, Black Mask, Akins... Us starting over... I guess, by the time things settled down, I kind of forgot about it."

"I kind of wish you were still forgetting," Dick admitted. "Heaven knows I've tried. Bottom line? I took advantage of Huntress's connections. She and the Outsiders paid a call on the Tevis clan and... strongly suggested that they pretend that those couple of months I spent with them never happened. They never gave me the details and, having all of that 'stuff' you just mentioned on my plate, I didn't probe too deeply. Though I suspect that Huntress may have referenced her own family connections for added clout. All I know for sure is that they pulled out of Gotham completely after that. I think Helena said something about Detroit... I'm not sure. Anyway, they're not around and I wouldn't contact them if they were."

"Okay," Barbara relented. "Just trying to cover all the angles." She shook her head. "Seriously? I'd talk to Bruce. Well, _I'd_ talk to Huntress; we're colleagues. But she's with Dinah in Monaco this week and I'm guessing you don't think this can wait until she gets back."

Dick considered. "Maybe it can, but I'd rather not risk it." He smiled. "I was hoping not to bug Bruce when he's dealing with the Academy, but you're right. I'll stop by the manor tomorrow after work."

* * *

"You're lucky Inzerillo's people weren't using Teflon-coated bullets," Bruce snapped, worry and relief manifesting as anger in his voice.

Some years earlier, Dick might have bristled at the tone. Now, he only flashed a crooked smile and massaged his lower ribs absently. "Babs said the same thing last night," he admitted, "when I took off the suit and got a look at the bruises." Even bullets of the non-armor-piercing variety packed a wallop—something they both knew all too well.

Bruce sucked in a breath and then let it out with a sigh. "I always knew there was a reason I liked Barbara," he said.

Dick let out a startled chuckle. He couldn't remember the last time Bruce had tried to crack a joke.

"What?" Bruce demanded, one eyebrow quirking upward. "It was a simple statement of fact."

"I know," Dick said, grinning. It _was_ a simple statement of fact... but Bruce's expression had been a touch too innocent, his voice a tinge too mild, when he'd uttered it. And both face and tone had been just a trifle more so, when he'd reacted to Dick's response.

Abruptly, Bruce spun away, but not before Dick caught a quick answering smile on his mentor's lips. When he spoke again, though, his voice was serious. "You might want to try Bressi."

"Tough Tony?" Dick queried. "I've thought about him. He's mid-level, so I wasn't sure if I ought to approach him directly; not right at the beginning, anyway."

"We rescued his children," Bruce said. "Jean-Paul. When he was filling in for me after Bane broke my back."

Dick considered. "The way I heard it," he said, shaking his head, "Jean-Paul almost got them killed in the crossfire when he attacked too soon."

Bruce nodded. "I'm not saying that Bressi owes us, or that Jean-Paul wasn't reckless. However, Bane _was_ using those children as leverage to force Bressi into line. When the dust cleared, the kids were alive and back with their father. And since then, Bressi seems to have steered clear of the sort of activities that we take the greatest interest in… quashing. He's not obligated to us, but he might be _grateful_."

"Grateful enough to listen, anyway," Dick nodded. "Thanks for the tip. I'll follow up." He gestured toward Bruce's monitor, which was displaying a page of text with the Gotham City Police Academy logo in the upper left corner. "How's that coming along?"

"The material?" Bruce asked. "I'm learning it. However, the subject matter pertains to crime scene management. We start that module on Monday." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I know the instructor; I've encountered him several times, though the last was years ago. At our first meeting, he took me to task over various procedural errors I made when I arrived at one such scene before the GCPD did." At Dick's incredulous look, he sighed. "I was still learning my way at the time," he admitted. "Thinking back, he had a point."

"Great," Dick muttered. "So, he's got it in for you and he'll probably spend the whole course dissecting your past performance."

"I can handle it," Bruce rejoined sharply. Then, in an undertone, "I just wish I didn't have to."

"I hear you."

* * *

"Cadet Wayne."

Bruce rose to his feet and stood at attention as Sgt. Yumiat's eyes bore down on him. "Sir!" he acknowledged.

"What is the single most important duty of an initial responding officer upon arriving at a crime scene?"

Bruce kept his face impassive. "Sir, the officer must be observant when approaching, entering, or exiting the scene."

Yumiat nodded curtly. "Your manual, which you were required to read before today's class, outlines six key points pertinent to that duty. List them."

"Sir, yes, sir." By now, the acknowledgement was virtually a reflex. "First, the officer must note or log dispatch information. Second, the officer must make note of all people or vehicles leaving the crime scene. Third..."

"So you did learn something after fifteen-odd years," Yumiat remarked when Bruce was finished and Bruce was hard-pressed to tell if the sergeant's drawl was sarcastic or sincere.

"I would hope so, Sir," he returned.

From Yumiat's frown, he was having the same issue with Bruce's reply. Abruptly, his eyes lit on another cadet. "Cadet Lerner. Outline the three safety procedures that the initial responding officer must follow."

* * *

The Juvenile Laws module was the final academic course of the day, followed by Firearms Training and the physical conditioning drills. Five minutes before the end of class, Sgt. Podlaski made an announcement.

"One evening next week, you will each have the chance to ride along with a seasoned officer on patrol. Although it's not compulsory, we do strongly encourage you to take advantage of this opportunity. It'll give you an occasion to see how the skills we've been imparting to you play out in the field." The sergeant smiled thinly. "You probably won't participate in any action, but there's a pretty good chance you'll get to _see_ it. Those of you who are interested," Podlaski indicated a pile of forms on his desk, "fill out one of these and hand it back to me by tomorrow. Note that due dates for assignments and tests are not normally extended; contact the individual instructors for any exceptions." His expression didn't flicker as he continued, "I'm not granting any without a damned good reason; you want the experience, you figure out how to fit it into your evening."

He looked around the room, noting the stricken expressions. "Think of it as career prep: no matter how busy your shift is, no matter how exhausted you are, unless there's a valid medical reason—and by 'valid', I'm talking coma, emergency surgery, or otherwise at death's door—you get your reports written and your paperwork in. Maybe your supervisor will be a soft touch and give you more time, but I doubt it. Those who do are generally those who don't last long. Questions?"

There were none.

Bruce considered. Next week—like every week—he had several assignments due and one scheduled test. There would probably be several pop quizzes as well. There would be papers to grade, probably some other administrative work, as well. And it wasn't as though he didn't know what kind of 'action' he was likely to see. It would probably be another exercise in frustration, because he wouldn't be able to charge in and deal with the situation as effectively as he knew how. Still, something made him take one of the forms on Podlaski's desk. He'd check his study schedule for next week when he got home. If he could manage to clear two nights' work in one, he might even return the form.

* * *

"It's been nearly forty-eight hours since I spoke to Inzerillo," Batman rasped. "I'm going to assume that what we discussed has already become common knowledge in your circles and you know why I'm here."

Anthony 'Tough Tony' Bressi set his ledger down slowly on his desk, careful not to make any sudden moves. "Enrico's boys talk a bit more than they should," he returned. "Word has it you're looking to cut a deal." He laced his fingers together and flexed them. The expression on his face was mild, even somewhat pensive. "I'll hear what you have to say."

Batman took a deep breath. "Mannheim's action has thrown a major monkey wrench into the status quo. It's caused you some damage. You're looking to strike back. Meanwhile, Intergang is lying low. The situation's tense. All it takes is one person to get spooked or trigger-happy or decide to settle an old score..."

"Or one rumor that a member of Intergang has come to town," Bressi added, nodding slowly. "I know. Can you stop this?"

Batman regarded him silently for a long moment. Then he exhaled. "I _don't_ know. I hurt them in Metropolis. I'm not sure if that's going to be enough to keep them from coming here. I don't know whether the other Metropolis families will retaliate if a contingent from Gotham shows up to deal with Intergang, or whether they'll stay out of it and quietly carve up whatever's left when the dust clears. Not that there's any guarantee of much being left, what with Superman back in action. At this point, I'm just interested in helping to keep things quiet here. Last time... you know how it went. Families were targeted. _Kids_ were killed in the crossfire. I know you don't want that happening again any more than I do. So."

"So..." Bressi echoed. "So, we have a problem. See, I know you, Batman. Oh, maybe not you personally, but I don't think you're much different from the first guy to wear that suit. Not in this regard. Here's the thing. My nephew Minas was in Metropolis at that meeting when Intergang opened fire. Coroner's report says he died almost instantly. He lost his wife to cancer three years ago. Now he's gone. That makes his two kids orphans. Luka's fifteen, Clara's twelve. They're living with me now. And every night, when I come home, they're awake and they've only got one question for me: did we find them? The guys that did this. And every night, I have to tell 'em 'Not yet'. Last night, Luka asked me to send him to Metropolis and let him do some looking. No, Batman. I'm not stupid enough to do it. But I know why he's asking." His gaze was direct. "If you're the man most people think you are under that mask, I suspect you do, too. If I'm right about that, then I'm also right to guess that you probably remember what it was like for you each day, knowing that the guy who took away your people was walking around free. Seemingly untouchable. Well, Batman, you got your closure when Zucco got sent away. Is it so wrong that those kids don't?"

"My 'closure' didn't involve murder." He'd only thought it had at the time.

"This wouldn't be murder," Bressi said quietly. "It would be justice. Maybe not your brand of it, but I suspect a jury of my peers would see it different. Still," his shoulders seemed to slump and for a moment, Bressi didn't appear tough, so much as he did tired. "I'm willing to accept your condition. I won't kill the bastards responsible." His voice hardened. "So long as you don't interfere with what I make them live through." Batman opened his mouth to speak, but Bressi held up a hand. "You agree to that and we have a deal," he said. "My way, we can do 'em quick and relatively painless like they did Minas, or we can give them some physical scars to mirror the emotional ones they inflicted on Luka and Clara and a bunch of other kids in this city. Physical scars are usually a lot less serious than emotional ones, Batman. Think about it. Either way, those scumbags are getting off easier than they deserve. But if you want them to live, then I want them to suffer."

Batman was already shaking his head. "I can't. I'm truly sorry about your nephew. About his children. But I can't agree to what you're asking."

"That's a knee-jerk reaction," Bressi said. "Take a day or two to consider it. Really think it through. You're right about one thing: you do need inside help to keep a lid on this. I'm willing..." His voice trailed off and he smiled a trifle sheepishly. "There. I admitted it. I'm willing," he held up a hand, " _but_ I need to know that I can go home, look Luka and Clara in the eye, and say 'Yes. We got 'em and they've paid in full.' And tell me the truth, Batman. Don't you occasionally come down a bit harder when you're taking on some slime that really deserves it? How is what I'm asking any different?" He pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and extended his hand toward the masked vigilante. After a moment, when Batman didn't take it, he shrugged and came out from behind his desk. "I'll see you to the door."

* * *

Because Tim had rented an apartment in Old Gotham, he seldom had the Teen Titans' current base of operations to himself. Michael, Virgil, Eddie, Rose, and M'Gann all lived there and, while Cassie was living in the dorms at Barr College, the school was located a scant twenty minutes drive from their headquarters. If she flew, she could be there even faster. So, he wasn't at all surprised to arrive at their base and find everyone there ahead of him.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, as he slid into the only vacant chair at the table.

"You're not," Cassie grinned. "We're all early."

"Actually," M'Gann laughed, "you are, too. The meeting was called for ten minutes from now." She frowned. "I do think that this is the latest you've ever been early, though."

Tim scowled in exaggerated annoyance. "Next time we have a meeting during rush hour, I'll take the subway. I think it'll be faster. Okay, if we're all here, let's call this meeting to order. Any objections?"

When there were none, Cassie sat up a bit straighter and cleared her throat. "Okay, what's the first order of business?"

Rose raised her hand and began speaking immediately. "The mobs," she stated, as though it was obvious. "Everyone's so tense right now, I think if someone drops a garbage can lid on the pavement, anyone carrying a gun within earshot is going to draw and fire."

"I know," Tim admitted. "Batman's trying to see if he can nip things in the bud, but if he can't, I think we can expect another meeting, this time one that _he_ calls. Might not be a bad idea to start brainstorming, in case he asks for suggestions."

Static was frowning. "Gang wars are bad enough," he said. "Do I want to know what a mob war's gonna be like?"

"Nobody who went through the last one wants it to happen again," Tim replied. "Not us and not the Families. Trouble is, too many of those guys think that a gun is the best solution to most of their problems. Fire one at the wrong time and they'll decide it's the _only_ one."

"Maybe," Michael said hesitantly, "we should see if Batman—Mr. Wayne, I mean—could set up some training simulations so we know what we're up against."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed. "It might help. Of course," he added, "the commissioner might want him to train the cops first."

"She might," Tim said, "but after what happened in the first mob war, I don't think the rest of the brass will go for it. Not now."

Eddie frowned. "What happened in the—?"

"Maybe," Cassie cut him off, "we could work with the cadets again. I mean, I know we're on the same side, but there are some similar factors in play: they outnumber us, they use guns..."

"If things really get out of hand," M'Gann ventured, "do you think the cadets will get called on to bolster the regular police's ranks?"

Tim shook his head. "Doubtful. I'm pretty sure GCPD will leave them alone. The only way the cadets would be part of it would be if the academy were attacked while classes are in session."

"Of course," Virgil said, "if the mobsters want to take out the original Batman, that's exactly where they'll go to look for him."

"Nobody could be that stupid and be in charge of one of the Families," Rose snapped decisively.

"Wait," Eddie said. "What if it's someone being smart?"

"What?" Rose demanded.

"We're forgetting something," Eddie said. "This war... it's not natural. I mean, it wouldn't be happening if not for Intergang. Well, everyone knows that Batman's a master at strategy. So... what happens if, while the Gotham mobsters fight among themselves, Intergang comes in and attacks the Academy?"

"Batman would—" Michael started to speak.

"With the right tools and equipment, Batman can fight an army single-handedly," Eddie agreed. "But at the Academy, who says he'll have them? It's not like he's got batarangs or grappling lines or explosives on him. And we _know_ how he feels about the one weapon they've got a lot of up there: guns. Plus, the manor's got better security than the Academy. If Intergang makes it onto the Academy grounds and... I dunno, bombs one of the buildings, they could get him, either with the blast or the debris."

"And then we get distracted," Virgil nodded. "Because, while the cops are looking for us to help them in the city, even if we split our forces, we're going to be thinking about the suburbs. And if we split our forces, it might not be enough..."

Tim held up his hands. "I'm going to talk to Batman," he said. " _Both_ of them. If you're right, they need to be aware. Even if you're wrong, a few more contingency plans won't hurt."

"And maybe we should drill with the cadets," Cassie added. "Just in case they get involved."

"You mean, just in case Jeffie-poo is single," Rose drawled.

"Shut up!" Cassie laughed, smacking the air in front of Rose's face.

But Rose couldn't help noticing that her teammate's ears had turned a particularly dark shade of pink.

* * *

"Any idea what the extra security is doing here?" Norton asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the officer who had been standing by the key-card scanner at the entrance to the building.

Bruce sighed. "They're being thorough. I'm assuming you've been keeping up with current events."

"Haven't had time," Norton admitted. "It's all I can do to keep on top of the course work."

"Ah." Bruce explained briefly about Intergang's recent actions and the impact to the Gotham mobs. When he was done, he realized that several of his classmates had paused to listen.

"Wait," Brenner said. "But we're nowhere near the downtown core. Do they seriously think we're in danger here?" Bruce waited. After a moment, Brenner's face flushed. "Oh. Oh, sheesh."

"For what it's worth," Bruce said, "I think the precautions are more for show. If Intergang does mean to strike here, the extra security won't help matters. I think it would just add to the casualties, and I suspect that Commissioner Sawyer is thinking along those same lines. However, if she takes no precautions and something were to happen, there would be an outcry."

"So basically, she's risking more lives for what amounts to CYA," Laramie nearly spat the words out.

Bruce nodded. "That's my impression anyway. I've been wrong before, though."

Maleev cleared his throat. "Maybe we should have some more training with the Titans," he said. "From what I read some time back, Intergang has some weird alien tech. If we can't get our hands on that, then maybe squaring off against metas is the next best thing."

"Yeah, Jeff," Laramie snorted. "And maybe you want to find out if Goldilocks thinks you're just right."

"That's not it at all," Maleev protested as several cadets snickered. "Seriously. Wonder Girl's hot and all. And she's smart and into sports, but she's not my type."

"You're into sports," Kotsopoulos pointed out.

"Not my type," Maleev repeated. "Besides, a girl like that? She's got to be taken. Isn't she?" He turned to Bruce. "Wait. Back up. Is she even legal?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "She's twenty," he supplied. "And I have far more important things to attend to than a college student's love life. If you're curious about your chances," he shrugged, even as he struggled to keep a straight face, "ask her." To his mind, Jeffrey Maleev was protesting _far_ too much.

They had only a few more minutes to get to class and Bruce and the others quickened their pace. Maleev trailed behind. "Ask her?" he repeated, as his classmates disappeared around the corner. "How?"

* * *

Barbara had been asleep by the time Dick made it back from patrol and she was in deep conference with the Birds when he left for work the next morning. It wasn't until supper that he finally had the opportunity to tell her about his meeting with Bressi.

"Tell me you're not considering—" Barbara gasped.

"—Making Luka Bressi the next Robin? No." Barbara glared at him. Dick gazed back, straight-faced. They regarded each other in silence for nearly a full minute. Then Dick's lips twitched and a guffaw forced its way past them. After a moment, Barbara giggled.

"You... you almost had me going for a minute," she exclaimed. "I mean, I know you wouldn't but..."

Dick sobered. "But you doubted for a second. Because a mobster took out my parents and, to hear Tony say it, Luka's hurting the same way I was, and for the same reason. Don't worry. If you think for one instant that I'd want to have to explain to Bressi about the bruises and broken bones that his great nephew is likely to come home with as Robin... I'm trying to get the guy on my side, not give him a reason to become a real thorn in it."

Barbara nodded. "So..."

Dick reached for the jar of parmesan cheese and shook it over his pasta. His expression turned vague for a moment as he continued to shake it until the mound of spaghetti carbonara in his bowl resembled a snow-capped mountain. Then he blinked and set the bottle down on the table. "Oops."

"You okay?"

Dick smiled quickly. "Yeah. I've been going over it and... much as I hate to say it, I see Bressi's point. Take the mob out of the equation. Let's just say that I'm tracking down a murderer who left two kids orphaned. What Bressi's asking me to let him do is... more or less what Bruce would actually have done."

"Bruce."

Dick sighed. "I don't usually get angry enough to inflict that kind of damage. Of course, there have been exceptions."

"You're not still beating yourself up over Hush, I hope."

"Not exactly," Dick said slowly. "I think that, if someone else had done it, I would have given them a fist bump. It's not so much that he didn't deserve it; it's that I don't like being the person who did it, if that makes sense." He shook his head. "Not that there's much I can do about it now."

He reached for the pepper mill and scattered a couple of twists of crushed red pepper over the parmesan. "Getting back to Bressi. From his standpoint, he's being more than reasonable. Surprisingly so. It tells me he really wants this alliance. I'm thinking that maybe I should go along with it." He held up a hand as Barbara opened her mouth. "No. Hear me out. If I'm the one who gets to dish out the payback, I know how to inflict pain—lots of it—without killing or crippling. I'm not sure I really need to worry about handling hitmen with kid gloves. I'll hurt them, but no worse than Bruce would have done after what they did."

"And if Bressi turns you down?"

Dick sighed. "I don't know. I was thinking of insisting that I supervise whatever punishment Bressi's boys hand out and step in if it looks like it's getting out of hand." He shook his head. "Except, you know how _that's_ going to look if someone catches it on video: me standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the mob. Maybe..." His voice hardened. "No. No maybes. I promise Bressi that I make the guys responsible for the killings pay. That's not a problem; I was going to do it anyhow. And maybe I'll hit them a _leetle_ harder than I would have before that talk with Bressi made me realize that the creeps didn't just kill a bunch of mobsters; they ruined a lot of families. Families with a small 'f', I mean. I make it clear to Bressi: he leaves that part of it to me or I move on to the next name on the list. If the next name turns me down, I tell Roy to bring in the Outsiders, you bring in the Birds, and we get the Titans on standby. I need Bressi to be thinking that he needs me more than I need him, but I also want to be sure that if it comes right down to it, I _don't_ need him, period."

He took a deep breath. "I also need to let Sawyer know the situation. She's not going to like it, but she'll like being out of the loop a lot less."

"True," Barbara admitted, "on both counts." Her expression, already serious, grew somber. "You know if this backfires, there's likely to be a repeat of what Akins did after the last mob war, right?"

Dick nodded, exhaling noisily. "That's exactly why I want Sawyer in the loop. The more she knows, the less likely she is to order me shot on sight."

"You hope," Barbara replied, but there was a hint of a smile in her voice.

Dick nodded. "Always."

* * *

Bruce received confirmation of his Ride-Along acceptance by email on Wednesday evening. He blinked as he read the name of the officer he'd been paired with. For a moment, a smile flashed on his face. The smile vanished as, unbidden, memories of his time in Arkham surfaced. The gibes, the indifference, the therapists who had seemed like interrogators at the time, and all the time alone with the memories of his past juxtaposed against the reality of his present. He hadn't felt like Batman in Arkham. He had barely felt like Bruce. At times, he suppressed an involuntary shudder, he had barely felt like a person.

Next Thursday, he would be riding with Officer Kyle Robbins, the first person who—apart from his family and, maybe, Alex—had made him feel _human_.

Covering two nights' worth of coursework in one had just become a bargain.

* * *

"Well?" Barbara asked when Dick slid into her office, tired but relatively unhurt. Not completely unhurt, though, she thought as she noted the long slash in the Bat-suit's sleeve and the oozing cut below. "Hang on. I'll get the kit."

So saying, she rolled over to a cabinet under one of her monitors, opened it, and pulled out a green plastic case adorned with a red cross.

"It's not serious," Dick murmured. "It's long, not deep."

"Yeah, and you've been swinging around in a major pollution center, exposing it to all kinds of nasty germs." She tore open a sterile alcohol pad. "And yes, this is going to sting."

"Go ahead, Babs," Dick flashed her a smile. "Hurt the one you love."

"So much for my promise to stop doing that," she muttered. Then she added briskly, "Roll up your sleeve. And don't think I didn't notice that you haven't answered my question."

"Well." Dick started to sigh, but then drew in his breath with a hiss when the alcohol pad touched his cut. "Well, neither Bressi nor Sawyer are happy, so I'm probably doing something right. Let's just say that I hope those goons put up a fight so I'll have an excuse to let loose. I... do not want to pound someone who's trying to surrender into hamburger."

"I don't blame you," Barbara breathed.

"And if Tony wasn't asking me... telling me... to take them down hard, I probably would do it on my own initiative. But the fact that he's basically got me in a position where if I don't do it, he will..." He shook his head. "I've been trying to put those days when I was acting as mob hitman out of my mind. I guess they're coming back to me. I was seriously not in a good place then."

Barbara covered his hand with her free one. After a moment, he squeezed it.

"I know I'm rationalizing, but one way or another, those Intergang hitmen are going down painfully. If I don't administer the beat-down, Bressi will, and he'll do it harder. And the injuries will probably be permanent. I can do it in a way that's painful but won't cause long-term damage." He made a face. "I could almost let myself believe I'm doing them a favor."

"Almost."

"Yeah, well. They're murderers. I don't really want to do them any favors but..." He closed his eyes. "Okay. You know what happened with Blockbuster, right? Catalina told me to get out of the way. I did. She shot him."

Barbara nodded, but she was frowning. "Why are you bringing that up now?"

"Because I messed up big time," Dick replied. "But then, I got another chance. When Detective Chandler pulled the gun on Hush, it was practically déjà vu. And that time... I did what I should have done the first time. It doesn't change what happened with Blockbuster. It doesn't retroactively make what I did then okay. But it..." he gave her a sad smile. "It sort of proved to me that I wasn't over the moral event horizon."

Barbara smiled back, but then she frowned. "Wait. You seriously thought that you might have been?"

"I went and joined the mob, Babs. You don't do that when you think you're still on the side of angels. There were some things that I did—things that were expected of me—that I'm not proud of. Back then, I was already drowning in shame and self-pity. I was mostly numb." He closed his eyes. "If you're wondering, I didn't kill anyone. Even stopped a couple of hits. But I was positive that the road I was headed down made it just a matter of time. And now," he shook his head, "I think I need proof that all of that garbage is out of my system. That I can work with Bressi because it's going to help keep things stable, but that, even if it means going back to wade in that _cesspool_ , I can do it without attracting anything that won't wash off. Maybe it's stupid and I should just leave well enough alone, but I have to do this. I have to know. For me."

Barbara squeezed his hand again. "All right," she said finally. "Do what you need to. But remember that you aren't alone and this isn't your only option. If things get hairy, there are alternatives."

"I know." He smiled. "If it helps, Sawyer's about as enthusiastic about the prospect as you are. And she's made it clear that if Bressi's people cross certain lines, I either bring them in or I can expect to be sharing a cell with them. And since she does know where I live..."

"Yeah." She finished winding a gauze bandage around his arm. "Okay. Tomorrow, you go make nice with Bressi and I'll go siphon off some funds from Thorne's Cayman Island account so I can afford to keep the lights on in here for another month."

Dick chuckled. "It used to be so much easier to be the good guys." He bent down to kiss her. "I'll see you downstairs."

* * *

Two nights later, it was a pale and nervous Enrico Inzerillo who stumbled into the Iceberg Lounge to request an audience with the Penguin. When he was ushered into Cobblepot's back office, he sank heavily into the chair offered and gripped the armrest tightly.

"Brandy?" Cobblepot inquired solicitously.

Inzerillo shook his head. "The Bat cut a deal with Bressi."

Cobblepot lifted a piece of grilled swordfish bruschetta to his lips and took a delicate bite. The toasted bread crumbled in his hand, leaving the fish hanging partially out of his mouth and his fingers dripping vinaigrette. He sucked in the fish and wiped his hands fastidiously on a linen napkin. "Do go on," he said, through a mouthful of swordfish.

Inzerillo did his best not to let his disgust show. "Bressi's got Panessa and Beretti on-side already and it looks like he might get the Bertinellis to fall in."

Cobblepot shrugged. "You did turn him down. Evidently, he found another. Why tell me this?"

"Because with the Bat backing him up, Bressi's now in a position to make a real play for my holdings," Inzerillo blurted. "Especially with the other families joining him. My sister married into the Mandragoras."

"And Stefano Mandragora ordered the death of Franco Bertinelli. Yes, I can see why his surviving family members might be a bit nervous that the remaining Bertinellis' star might be on the rise." He stroked his chin with oily fingers. "Interesting. I appreciate your passing this news on to me. I'd heard it earlier, of course, but I do hope you'll be comfortable enough to come to me with other tips from time to time—"

"I want in!" Inzerillo snapped.

Cobblepot frowned. "It seems to me as though you had that opportunity and chose not to avail yourself," he said.

"No, not with the Bat. With you."

Cobblepot feigned astonishment. "With me, my good sir? I tend to steer clear of the sort of circles your family travels in."

"But you can protect me. Look. It's not just the Bertinellis. Bressi's had his eye on my territory for a long time. With the Bat working for him and the other families falling in behind him, I need you. I need your help. In exchange I'll give you twenty-fi... no, wait. Thirty-five percent of any profits my people take in and you supply me with the people and armaments to keep Bressi from taking what's mine."

Cobblepot smiled. "Tempting," he lied, "but I think not. As I said, I don't move in your circles. I'm merely a businessman and the deal you're attempting to make strikes me as being rather bad for business. Much," he added icily, "like sparking off the war Batman came to you initially to try to prevent. Now leave. Before I have you thrown out."

Inzerillo leaped up angrily. "How dare you?" He demanded. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Deliberately, Cobblepot picked up another piece of bruschetta. "Of course," he said, taking a bite. This time he waited until he'd swallowed before continuing. "You're a man whose good fortune has carried you to the pinnacle of success and allowed you to believe that you were unsinkable. The designers of the _Titanic_ made similar assumptions, to their detriment." He pressed a button beneath his desk. "Good day."

In response to the silent alarm, two burly men entered at a rush. Taking a gesture from Cobblepot as their cue, they clamped heavy hands around Inzerillo's arms and bore him, blustering, from the office.

Cobblepot frowned after them. Inzerillo had been desperate and desperate men were dangerous. He opened his laptop with a sigh. He _detested_ email, but at times, it was the only avenue of communication open to him. He started to compose a new message.

* * *

Officer Kyle Robbins glanced at the man in the squad car next to him. "Any questions so far?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head. "No, sir."

Robbins chuckled. "I guess it's a new perspective for you, taking in the city this way. Any stray observations?"

Bruce allowed himself a faint smile. "Nothing worth sharing at this time, sir."

"Well, maybe later," Robbins allowed. The radio crackled to life.

_Car 18, we have a report of an armed robbery at 9415 Neville. Please respond._

Without sparing Bruce a second glance, Robbins picked up his receiver. "This is Car 18. Message received. You're aware I have a guest with me?"

_Affirmative 18. You are the closest vehicle. Proceed with all due haste._

Bruce knew that police radio codes were in the process of being phased out. They were learning them at the Academy only because many seasoned officers still used them unthinkingly. Part of him wondered if covering the material wasn't just going to guarantee its continuation. Even so, when Robbins replied with a '10-4', Bruce didn't need to pause to think about its meaning. The officer turned to him with a smile. "Looks like you're going to get to see some action after all."


	47. 46: Stubborn Weed, Travelling Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "What You Look For" was written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Age of Miracles album (Zoё, 2010).
> 
> A/N: To a member of the GCPD, 'MCU' stands for Major Crimes Unit. I'd just like to point that out for the benefit of my fellow fans of various superhero movies who, like me, generally think of a different phrase when faced with that abbreviation!
> 
> A/N: Prozio is the Italian for 'great uncle'.

 

A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

A/N: "What You Look For" was written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her _Age of Miracles_ album (Zoё, 2010).

A/N: To a member of the GCPD, 'MCU' stands for **M** ajor **C** rimes **U** nit. I'd just like to point that out for the benefit of my fellow fans of various superhero movies who, like me, generally think of a different phrase when faced with that abbreviation!

A/N: _Prozio_ is the Italian for 'great uncle'.

 _What you look for on a dirty street_  
_Is a patch of green beneath your feet_  
_A stubborn weed or a traveling rose_  
_Either one lives to grow_

 _What you look for in a stranger's eyes_  
_Is if he sees through your disguise_  
_How we long to be revealed_  
_To be known we might be healed_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "What You Look For"_

# 

Chapter 46—Stubborn Weed, Traveling Rose

"I suppose," Robbins commented as they headed for the crime scene, "you're curious as to why I haven't turned on the lights and sirens."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You… are aware that, as Batman, I relied on stealth and shadows for assistance," he remarked dryly. "There are times when advertising one's presence or," he coughed, "imminent arrival are counterproductive."

The officer nodded his approval. "Dispatch said the suspect is armed. If he knows we're coming, he might panic, which could lead to a hostage situation. Or, the suspect might panic and fire wildly, possibly hitting a bystander… or one of us," he added.

"So, Cadet Wayne," he asked with exaggerated solemnity, "what would your course of action be?"

Bruce frowned. "Well," he began, "9415 Neville is a two-story: jewelry store below, two apartments above. While assumptions are often proved wrong, I'm going to guess that, given the nature of the business, the burglary is taking place on the lower level."

"Do you have the city tour maps memorized, Cadet?" Robbins demanded.

Bruce smiled. "Just those covering the higher-crime areas, sir. Now one interesting bit of information is that there's a computer store at 9415A. It shares one wall with the crime scene; semi-detached building. At one time, it was a single store, but when rents increased, the owner had it divided and rented both separately. However, the upper apartments at 9415A are connected to 9415 by a door that is generally kept locked. If we could gain access to the second floor of 9415A, we could get into 9415 via the upper apartments. Back stairs would take us to the fire exit of the jewelry store and if we entered quietly, we might be able to take the suspect unawares."

Robbins let out a low whistle. "I like it," he said. "But I'd better run it by someone higher. We might need backup."

Bruce was about to protest that they could handle things on their own, but something checked him. He wasn't used to working with oversight. Robbins was. And if things didn't go according to plan, it was probably wise to know that their course of action had been approved.

Even if he privately thought that it was a waste of time and airwaves.

* * *

When they pulled up in front of the location, it was to find one man, in apparent pain, secured to a lamp-post by a length of wide chain wrapped tightly around his waist and fastened with a 'Kryptonite' bicycle lock. Robbins glanced at Bruce. "One of your people, d'you think?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head. "Not their style," he replied.

Robbins nodded, unsurprised. "Stay put," he said. Bruce watched as the officer approached the captive. A moment later, he jogged back to the car. "I don't suppose you have a bolt-cutter on you?"

Bruce shook his head. "We won't need one," he answered. "You can get that kind of lock open with a cheap ballpoint pen."

Robbins let out a short, barking laugh. "That, I've got," he remarked. His good humor died. "Guy said it was a kid took him out. Sprayed something in his eyes that smelled like cheap cologne, maybe aftershave. I'm calling for EMTs; can't have the guy going blind on us."

"Definitely not one of my people, then," Bruce said. "For what it's worth, while that stuff can be painful, if the eyes are flushed out, it's usually not serious. Here." He reached down for the bottle of water he'd brought with him.

"Hang on there," Robbins said. "Want to show me how you can get a supposedly theft-proof lock open with a Bic?"

Bruce shrugged. "Do you mind if I ask the suspect a couple of questions once his eyes are clear?" he asked.

"Knock yourself out," Robbins returned. "Just wait 'til I read him his rights, first."

* * *

A lithe figure in a charcoal denim jacket and jeans with a black t-shirt watched from the shadows as the officer and civilian approached the lamp-post. The figure turned with a muffled squeak, at the sound of someone clearing his throat. "Oh," a guilty voice sighed. "Hi, Bruno."

"So, this is why you were so interested in watching my MMA workouts," the heavyset man growled.

"Are you mad at me?"

Bruno let out a long breath. "Nowhere near as mad as some other people are going to be when they find out about this."

"You aren't going to tell them, are you? Bruno… please!"

Bruno shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He sighed again. "I just don't want you getting hurt, _carina_. And you will be if you keep doing this." He paused. "Did you learn anything?"

"Dollar store cologne works almost as well as mace in a pinch?" It was too dark to see the expression on the hulking man's face, but his disapproval was almost palpable. "When you're blanking on the right hand-to-hand moves for getting a guy to drop a gun, a Kryptonite lock makes a good blackjack?"

"Don't you _ever_ do that again," Bruno snapped, his voice deadly serious. "You're just lucky the guy wasn't a split-second quicker on the draw. You almost got yourself killed. Did he know anything useful?"

The smaller figure sighed in disgust. "Nothing. He might've come in from Metropolis, but it looks like he's not part of Intergang. Didn't know anything about anything."

"I told you we weren't going to get this solved overnight. I thought you were bright enough to realize it meant that _you_ couldn't either. Trust me, _carina_ , we are very interested in getting this thing resolved."

"Not as interested as I am," the figure retorted. "So. Are you gonna tell anyone?"

Bruno sighed heavily. "Not this time. See… on my way over here, I kept thinking to myself, if it weren't you doing this, if it was your brother, what would I do? And the answer is, I'd teach him a few things so that he'd have more going for him than guts, anger, and beginner's luck. You want me to keep quiet? You let me teach you a few things, too. And you don't pull this crap again until I say you're ready. Because if I even suspect that you're planning to, I gotta clear my conscience and tell what I know, you get me?"

The figure nodded. "Yeah, I get you." Then, in a lighter voice, "You're seriously going to train me?"

"Last time things were looking this bad," Bruno said, "you know a lot of people got hurt. Killed. Some of them were 'round about your age. We're trying to keep that from happening again. We don't want you to be part of it. Only…" he barked a short bitter laugh, "I guess we're sort of overlooking the fact that you already are. And if you are, maybe you need to learn a thing or two so you'll make it through this next go-round. But," his voice dropped to a murmur, "I don't think you ought to go telling anyone about it, _carina_."

The figure laughed. "Bruno, you're the best!"

* * *

The ambulance arrived moments later to collect the suspect. After it left, Robbins turned to Bruce with a sigh. "You're sure you've got no idea who caught him?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "You heard him. Kid somewhere between the ages of ten and thirteen, indeterminate gender, about five-two, wearing a black denim jacket and jeans, black tee, face obscured by a nylon stocking. Which eliminates the one person I know who I thought might possibly be involved."

Robbins frowned. "Tell me."

"One of the Teen Titans," Bruce said slowly. "His code name is 'Dodge'. Last year, he… decided that that he was going to be the next Robin. The current Batman was unwilling to bring him on. Then a freak accident gave him meta powers and, after some training from one of the older Titans, he joined the current team. However, first, he's calmed down a good deal over the past year. Second, he's around 5'7". Moreover, his normal costume involves a modified baseball uniform, not denims and t-shirts."

"Mmm," Robbins grunted noncommittally. "Still might be worth talking to him. Can you arrange that?"

He should have expected the question. "I'll run it by his team leader," he said. "Again, it's highly unlikely."

"True, but it wouldn't be the first time someone picked up a copycat. Who knows? Maybe there's a wannabe Titan out there trying to prove themselves. Should probably talk to the rest of the team, too." He smiled. "Guess I should thank you for the lead."

Bruce winced. "Don't mention it."

* * *

Oracle wasn't sure why she'd slapped a priority flag on Penguin's messages so that she would be automatically notified when he chose to communicate with her. She had many other ways to acquire information on the Gotham Underworld. He seldom bothered to keep her in the loop—which made a fair amount of sense: why should she expect him to help the competition? On the other hand, that was probably her answer. Cobblepot was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He could be arrogant at times. He might let a petty desire for revenge cloud his judgment. Mostly, though, he was enamored of the status quo. He had a legitimate establishment to run and a number of illegal rackets from which he took cuts. He didn't want to see either source of income run dry. As such, while he could be counted on for an occasional Bat-trap or crime spree, he tended to time those for periods when crime in Gotham was on the downswing.

When the reverse held true, on the other hand, the Penguin was given to passing along some fairly useful intel.

She looked up as Batman slid into her office via the open casement window. "You've got Inzerillo spooked," she said cheerfully. "He went running to Ozzie in a panic."

Dick pushed back his cowl. "Serves him right," he replied. "Anything we need to worry about?"

"Well," Barbara said, "Ozzie sent him packing. I think he wants to keep a lid on things almost as much as we do. As we figured. He did remind me of something: Enrico's connected to the Mandragoras… who would probably take poison before they sit at the same table with the Bertinellis. And no," she smiled, "I didn't tell Helena, yet."

Dick sighed. "That could be trouble."

"Pardon?"

"I went into this knowing I'd never unite all the families. I was hoping to have some of them falling in behind me and the rest staying out of it. I didn't actually think it would work out that way," he admitted, "but I was trying to be optimistic. I've been counting on Gotham's organized crime families to close ranks against Intergang after what happened in Metropolis. But here's the thing: Inzerillo's family controls a good piece of Gotham. The Mandragoras have more. Bressi's got enough people in line that it shouldn't be a concern… _unless_ the families not allied with him are nervous enough to swallow their pride and knuckle under to Intergang, hoping that—if Intergang beats us and takes over—they'll be able to hold onto most of what they've got, maybe carve out some of Bressi's turf. Inzerillo wouldn't consider it on his own, I don't think. But there's bad blood between the Mandragoras and the Bertinellis. That _could_ lead the Mandragoras to do something stupid." He sighed. "I'd talk to them, but it might make things worse."

"And if you did make them an offer, you might have the Bertinellis backing out."

Dick nodded. "And I can't have an alliance falling apart right when it's coming together."

"Okay," Barbara sighed. "It's 6AM in Monaco right now. Helena's probably asleep. I'll call her this afternoon—if she or the rest of the team haven't already checked in by then. She might have some ideas."

"If they involve letting the Mandragoras go hang," Dick said seriously, "tell her we can't afford it. We're trying to keep a lid on matters, not shake them up."

"I know." She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad tomorrow's your night off. You look beat."

"I _feel_ beat," Dick admitted. "Though I'll probably feel a bit better after something to eat."

"There's that chocolate bread pudding left over from supper," Barbara grinned. "If you put up a pot of tea to go with it, I'll come down in a few and join you."

Dick smacked his lips. "I like the sound of that," he said, stooping to kiss her. "Don't take too long, though. Once I warm up the bread pudding, there's only so long I'll be able to wait before the smell of chocolate overwhelms my willpower."

Barbara laughed. "I guess everyone's got a weakness."

* * *

"Got it, Harrier," Wonder Girl acknowledged. "I'm enroute now." She sighed. "Nights like this, I feel like I'm in one of those Warner Brothers cartoons where the cat's gonna get tossed out of the house if he wakes up his owner and the mouse is gleefully knocking stacks of plates off the high shelves while the cat freaks out and tries to catch them all."

Over the comm-link, Tim laughed. "It's not just you," he managed. "Do you need backup?"

Cassie considered. "No, I think I'm good." She put on a fresh burst of speed and flew onward toward the Hill. Her jaw hardened when she first glimpsed the flames from one of the tenement buildings. Roberto Panessa was a racketeer and a slumlord, but neither he nor his tenants deserved to have his property firebombed. She saw a number of people clustered together on the roof and muttered an expletive under her breath.

By the time she reached the building, she'd managed to suppress her anger. "Hi, everyone," she waved cheerily. "Let's get you out of here." She glanced about quickly. There were nearly forty people on that rooftop and the flames were only three floors below and rising.

She seized hold of the two people who were closest to her and lifted off again. "I'll be back in a minute!"

Once she had her cargo safely on the ground, she opened her comm-link once more. "About that backup?" she said. "I changed my mind."

"Roger that," Harrier returned. Then, with some concern, "Cassie?"

"I just saw more smoke two blocks away and I can't go check it out, not with the people trapped on the roof here." As she spoke, she leaped into the air once more.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Tim's voice came back online. "Emergency crews are on their way. I'm having Miss Martian drop Dodge off at your location. He can get everyone off the roof at once. You head for that other building; if the fire's just hit, there might be a panic to get out. You and M'Gann need to keep things under control. It won't be just you, by the way. Cops, EMTs, and fire fighters are converging on the scene as we speak. And Cassie?" Tim's voice dropped a notch and took on an even more serious note.

"Yes?"

"That other site is also a Panessa building. I don't think these fires are accidental. If you happen to see anything suspicious while you're over there, call it in."

* * *

"It's probably a waste of time," Sgt. Murakawa admitted to the cadet sitting in the passenger seat. "We know there's a fire. But when someone calls 911 and doesn't specify the nature of the emergency…"

Jeff Maleev smiled. "…then police, fire, and ambulance are all dispatched to the scene." He hesitated. "Do you think this could be related to everything that's going on now with the Families, sir?"

Murakawa considered. "No idea. If we knew who owned the building, it would help. I guess when MCU gets the details, that'll be one of the first things they look at."

"Is there a way to find out?"

A chuckle escaped Murakawa's lips. "You've got the Bat in your class, don't you, cadet?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "His outfit was a one-man operation, or close to it. He had to do it all. We're a team. A brotherhood. And one thing you need to get straight early is the difference between having your brothers' backs and doing your brothers' jobs. You'll have enough on your plate doing your own work. If you want MCU, then talk to your superior officer about what it'll take for you to make that team. First prerequisite? Pass the Detective Exam. Until then, you do your job, which—in this case—is that of 'first responder'. That means you establish the perimeter, see if you can figure out where any suspects entered or exited, keep anyone unauthorized away from the crime scene, and—this is important—separate all witnesses immediately, so they don't have a chance to work out a story among themselves. Leave the interviewing to the detectives. Leave the evidence gathering to CSI. First responders? We file our reports, and let the good people in the MCU and CSI make like Scooby Doo and solve the mystery."

"Respectfully, sir?" Maleev began.

"Well?"

"It's usually Fred, Daphne, and Velma who solve it. Sir."

"None of whom are you." He pulled into a parking space. "Here we are. Get out. I'm going to talk to some of the people who just exited the building. Maybe a few of 'em saw something."

Maleev nodded dejectedly. Then, as he glanced over his head, he smiled. "Sergeant?" he said, pointing at the blonde woman soaring overhead with one child in each arm and another seated piggyback on her shoulders. "You might want to talk to her."

* * *

"Heard you had a visitor," Batman intoned. It was two nights later and he was feeling the better for having had a good sleep.

Startled, Oswald Cobblepot spun about and let out an angry squawk. "Why do I even bother keeping you in the loop?" he demanded. "If you're just going to pop in to give me a heart attack anyway…"

"At ease, Ozzie," Batman said, holding out his hands palms down and lowering them slightly, as though patting down the air before him. "I just came by to thank you."

Penguin blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Thanks for not letting the nature of our… relationship cloud your good sense. I appreciate it."

Oswald harrumphed loudly. "Yes, well. Civil war in the streets will scare the paying customers away. Can't have that happening."

Batman shook his head. "No. No, we can't. Again, I appreciate that you realize it. So. I thought I'd mention your assistance to Bressi. If you're looking to ally yourself—"

Penguin held up a hand, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "Eh… thank you, Batman, but no. In my experience, choosing sides can be rather detrimental to running a profitable business. You know how it is," he shrugged. "I provide a safe meeting place where deals of every kind can be negotiated in relative quiet and confidentiality. I take percentages, not sides. As a result, my life is relatively peaceful, except for when you and your ilk pop in to disrupt it. I'd hoped that forwarding some intel might serve much the same purpose as an insurance premium: pay a small amount now and avoid paying a much larger one down the road."

"I'm not in the protection racket, Ozzie," Batman snapped. "Don't make the mistake of thinking you can buy me off."

Penguin sighed. "Fine. Think of me as running my own private Switzerland. I'm staying neutral in this. And one more piece of advice. Consider it a friendly warning. Neutrality means I'm helping—and hindering—both sides equally. If I pass on intel to you, rest assured that I will also pass on intel to Inzerillo's people. I mention this as a precaution, lest you think you can get more information out of me with your usual intimidation tactics. I daresay you might. But for every tidbit you extract from me, know that I will freely disclose similar data about your people and Bressi's to the other camp." He smiled. "If I were you, Batman… I'd wait. You have Inzerillo running scared right now. Sooner or later, he'll come to me looking for information that might give him an edge and, when I refuse him, _he_ will likely attempt to intimidate me." He chortled. "Then, I'll obviously be honor-bound to send another email to your computer-savvy ally, won't I?"

Batman shook his head. "You're playing a dangerous game, Ozzie," he cautioned, smiling crookedly.

"Perhaps. But I believe I know the board—and the rules—at least as well as you do. Now. Surely you have a jaywalker to terrorize somewhere?" He waved his hand in dismissal and deliberately turned his swivel chair around. "I do love to look out at the skyline after dark, Batman. Don't you?"

There was no reply. When he turned his chair back to his desk, Cobblepot noted with satisfaction that he was now alone in his office.

* * *

Talking to the Titans had been a waste of time, as Bruce had suspected. Still, Tim had been gracious enough to pop in at Central and advise Robbins in person. The team agreed to keep an eye out for the new person—something that they would have done without being asked, particularly since the eyewitness had pegged them for a child, perhaps not even in their teens yet.

Oracle and Batgirl were doing their part as well, and even Huntress and Black Canary had their description, though at the moment, they were more concerned with mob activity. "If Batman reconsiders his no-kill policy," Huntress had remarked decisively, "I want to know yesterday. There are a few people I'm monitoring that I could be a _lot_ less gentle with."

Barbara had sighed. "Even if he does, I won't," she'd replied. "Sorry, Helena. If you want to sign on with Checkmate or Task Force X, I can get you an introduction. But otherwise…"

"I know, I know. We don't kill. Not even if it's scum who truly deserves it."

"If you'd like," Barbara had offered, "I can teach you a few non-lethal, very painful moves. I can't sanction killing, but I have no problem with you making them wish I would."

Helena had shaken her head in mock despair. "I guess it'll be better than nothing."

"And if you do happen to see that kid…"

"I know. I'll call it in."

However, nearly two weeks later, it was Cass who encountered the newcomer.

* * *

"So," Cass said, "you need backup but… outside?" She was sitting on her cape, and she shifted in her chair to dislodge it, wincing a bit as the steel rollers slid on the metal flooring of the Bat Cave's computer station.

Dick sighed. "Bressi called for this meeting in his home. It's small. Him, the heads of the other six families he's brought in, and me. But having us all in one place is risky. There's going to be security on the grounds; he's providing most of it. But he's asked me to put one of my own people in, too—a sign of good faith." He shrugged. "I agreed."

Cass nodded. "Okay."

"Cass…" Dick's expression turned serious. "I'm counting on you to keep a lid on things. I promised Sawyer: no killing condoned on our watch. If it happens, we bring them in, no matter which side fired. Let the courts decide whether it was justified. I've told Bressi and he's told his people. That doesn't mean that somebody won't get trigger-happy." He closed his eyes. "One thing that I've finally learned after spending too much time trying to be exactly like Bruce and then doing my level best to be totally unlike Bruce…" He opened his eyes and flashed her a quick grin, "obviously, not at the same time; I wasn't _that_ confused…" His grin widened when she gave him a fleeting smile of her own, "…is that we can't control every situation. We just do our best and hope for the best. You're going to be one person, keeping an eye on seven nominal friendlies and an untold number of potential hostiles. No matter how hard you try, stuff might happen. I guess," he said seriously, "what I'm trying to say is, I trust you to do everything you can to defend the house and keep everyone—ally or enemy—alive. If that's not enough… then it'll still be everything you could have done and I'll make sure Sawyer hears it from me."

"From us," Cass said firmly.

"From us." He took a deep breath. "Okay. You ready?"

For answer, Cass reached behind her to pull up her cowl. Dick followed suit.

A moment later, the Batmobile sped out of the cave, the Batcycle close behind.

* * *

From her position on the roof of Bressi's Lyntown mansion, Batgirl kept a careful watch on the grounds to the west. One of the other guards had offered her coffee, which she had declined. This truce did not sit well with her. As much as she understood why it was necessary, she believed that she'd had her fill of working with trained killers before her ninth birthday. And if not then, surely her time spent with Lady Shiva had sufficed.

She froze. In the near stillness of her surroundings, the sound of a boot squelching on wet ground sounded impossibly loud. She looked down and, with the aid of her thermal imager, spied a slight figure cutting across the grounds, toward the perimeter wall.

She pulled out the walkie-talkie that one of Bressi's people had handed her. "Saw something. Checking," she said tersely.

An instant later, the voice of the guard who'd offered her the coffee crackled over the receiver. "Need backup?"

"No." She seldom did. And she definitely didn't want _armed_ backup. Not when everyone had been tense for weeks and an accidental gunshot could set off the war that they were trying to prevent. She took a running leap off the roof, stuck the landing on the top of the balcony railing a floor below, and executed a triple somersault to the grassy turf.

Her quarry was trying to hide in the shadows, but showed dark red to her thermal imager. From their body language, the quarry was tense, more than a bit nervous, and not planning to fight. Batgirl considered letting the intruder escape, but then she remembered: they had been leaving the house, not trying to break in. If they had overheard anything, stolen anything, Batgirl needed to know now, before they left the scene.

She sprinted for the shadows, moving swiftly and far more quietly than the person that she was chasing. That person wasn't staying still either. They moved cautiously, taking advantage of whatever cover they could find. There was a gate less than twenty yards away. The figure closed the distance confidently and moved to the electronic pinpad. A moment later, the gate swung open and the figure clenched a fist and jerked it upwards in triumph.

That was when Batgirl took them down with a flying tackle.

* * *

When there was no answer to his knock, Bruno cautiously eased the bedroom door open. "Come on, _carina_ ," he coaxed. "Don't sulk. You know I didn't cancel our lesson to be mean, I did it because I didn't want one of your _prozio_ 's sentries to get trigger happy."

When there was still no answer, he looked at the lump under the blankets and quilt and smiled indulgently. Then his smile froze. The window was open and there was something off about that lump. Hoping to hell that he was wrong, he walked to the bed and laid a hand where his charge's shoulder should have been. It sank into pillows. He moved to the window and saw a sturdy cord tied to the iron bracket of an adjacent book shelf. " _Porca vaca!_ " he muttered.

He left the room, raced to the end of the hallway and took the stairs at a run. When he reached the basement, and one of the lieutenants came forward to block him, he slowed his pace and raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "I need to talk to Bressi, now," he whispered. "Tell him—."

Just then, his cell phone vibrated. "Wait." He pulled out the phone, looked at the number, and heaved a sigh of relief. "Never mind."

* * *

Batgirl's gloved hand snuffed out the intruder's startled cry almost immediately. A moment later, the vigilante winced, grateful that the tough leather afforded her some protection against her adversary's teeth.

"Stop," she whispered harshly. "Quiet."

The intruder continued to struggle, twisting and kicking as best they could. Despite herself, Batgirl felt a grudging admiration. Many people would have given up by now. The intruder kept at it. Finally, the small body relaxed with a frustrated groan.

Batgirl eased herself off of her captive, still keeping a firm grip on their wrists. "Okay?" she asked.

The captive tested her grip once more, then nodded in resignation.

"Come."

The captive started struggling again. "No! Please. I'll go back on my own."

The voice was light, with a slight huskiness to it that gave no clue as to gender. "Then…" Batgirl said simply, "you die. Security. They see you, they shoot." Behind her mask, she frowned. "Why?" From the tilt of the captive's head, the cowled woman realized that she needed to use more words. "Why… are… you… here?"

The captive tried to get loose again. When that didn't work, slim shoulders slumped dejectedly. "I live here. Now, anyway."

"Then…" Batgirl shook her head, perplexed, "why… leave?"

The captive sighed. "I was testing myself. I wanted to see if I could get out without being spotted."

"Almost got killed."

"No. I was in the other room listening when you guys got your security posts. Once I knew where you were standing, I figured it'd be safest getting out that window. Bats don't kill. Everyone knows that."

"True," Batgirl admitted. Her voice hardened. "Still stupid." If another sentry had come to relieve her for a moment, if a security camera had caught a shadowy figure crossing the grounds… "Name?"

"None of your business."

Batgirl sighed. "Fine. Back to house. _Their_ business."

"No! Please… Let me do it myself."

"Too dangerous."

"Then let me get out and I'll call Bru— _someone_ to let me in the front door. Please. If those guys on the roof don't kill me, my uncle will."

"Uncle?"

" _Great_ uncle," her captive sighed. "Tony Bressi."

Batgirl regarded the small figure for a moment, as she searched her memory for a name. Luka Bressi, she remembered, was fifteen. Her captive seemed closer to eleven or twelve. "Clara?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yeah."

She considered. Then she pulled out her walkie-talkie. "All okay," she said softly.

"What was it?" a male voice asked over a crackle of static.

"Will report at house," she said. "Coming now."

She turned to Clara. "You said… call someone. In house?"

Clara nodded. "Yeah."

"Cell?"

For answer, Clara reached slowly into her pocket and pulled out a phone.

"Call now."

She nodded again. With one finger poised over the 'talk' button, she paused. "Batgirl? Do you… can you find out who killed my father?"

Batgirl shifted her weight from one foot to the next. "Trying."

Clara groaned in frustration. " _Everyone_ is trying," she growled. "But nobody's finding them!"

"Takes time," Cass said, not unkindly. "We will."

"Sure." She made the call and spoke briefly. After a moment, she handed the phone to Batgirl. "He wants to talk to you."

Hesitantly, Batgirl held the phone to her ear. "Yes?"

"Batgirl?" a gruff voice demanded. When she confirmed it, he heaved a sigh of relief. "Good. Listen. You take her around to the kitchen door in five minutes. The sentries will be elsewhere; I'll make sure of it. I'll meet you both there. And Batgirl, thanks. I was about ten seconds away from having to tell Bressi his grand-niece had disappeared. Seeing as I'm supposed to be watching out for her, that wouldn't have gone well. Much appreciated." The call ended. Batgirl handed the phone back to Clara.

"Come. No. Wait." She gripped her cape by the top edges and shook it out so that it flowed smoothly behind her. "In case sentries don't all move in time," she said, making an effort to remember her words, "behind me. Under cape. Hold my waist. Then… they'll just see me."

As the twelve-year-old hastened to obey, Cass added under her breath, "I hope…"

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, the three were seated around the kitchen table. "I was giving her combat tips," Bruno admitted. "I guess… well, you remember last time, when someone opened fire in the school and Aquista's daughter was gunned down. I didn't want that happening to her. I figured, if she knew how to fight and she knew some evasive techniques, it might help."

"Against guns?" Batgirl asked.

"Look," Bruno sighed, "nobody likes thinking that they're helpless and there's nothing they can do. I thought if I gave her a few tricks, maybe she wouldn't feel that way."

"Uh… Bruno?" Clara snapped, "I'm sitting right in front of you, so quit talking about me like I'm not here."

" _Carina_ …" Bruno held up a warning finger, "do you have any idea how close you came to getting shot tonight?"

Clara glowered. "I told Batgirl—"

"And if Batman had asked her to come into the meeting for a minute and another sentry had taken her post? Or another sentry came over to her position to ask her something, spotted you, and decided anyone sneaking around the grounds couldn't be up to any good? What if someone had taken you for a burglar?"

Batgirl lifted her hand. "Did," she admitted.

Vindicated, Bruno jerked his head toward his young charge. "See?" His eyebrows came together in a glower. "You're grounded. Two weeks. Except for school. No friends, no phone calls you don't clear with me, first."

Clara bristled. "You can't do that! Uncle Tony will—"

"Your _prozio_ ," Bruno cut her off, "will want to know whether I've got a good reason for penalizing you. So, he'll ask me." He shrugged. "So, I'll tell him."

"No!" Clara gasped. "If he finds out…"

"…Yup. So, you're not going to tell him about this conversation. You're not going to leave the grounds except for going to and from school. And you're not getting any more lessons from me until the two weeks are up. Once they are, you show me you've mastered what I've already taught you and then we'll _discuss_ whether I should teach you anything new. And know this: I teach fighters, not spoiled little princesses. Capice?"

Clara glared sullenly down at the kitchen table. "Yeah, capizco."

Bruno sighed. "Sorry you got mixed up in this, Batgirl. Thanks again."

* * *

The rest of her sentry duty passed without incident. She and Batman waited until the scions of the other Families had left before heading toward their vehicles.

"Hope you weren't too bored," Batman remarked to her, as he remote-opened the Batmobile door.

Batgirl shook her head. "Wasn't."

"Oh? Anything interesting happen, then?"

Batgirl shrugged. Then, hesitantly, "Dick? When you and Batman caught… Zucco? Did it… help?"

Dick froze. Then, slowly, he turned to face her. "What do you think?" he asked.

She shrugged again. "Dunno. So asking." She took another breath. "Batman said once… never found… _he_ never found who killed his parents. If he had… maybe would have quit. You found. Still…" she gestured toward his cape.

Batman exhaled noisily. "Bruce wouldn't have quit," he said. "He might not have been as intense, but a lot of why he was out there was—at least, this is what he told me—Gotham used to be a lot safer. That's why his parents thought it was okay to cut through an alley to get to where they'd parked their car. Back then—and this isn't Bruce trying to pretend that his parents didn't make mistakes; I've looked at the crime stats and they bear out—Gotham really was a place where people could walk around at night and feel safe. Especially in that area. It used to be called Park Row, you know. Still is, officially. Anyway, after they were killed, things started going downhill. People living in Park Row started moving out to the suburbs. It wasn't long before people in other neighborhoods who could afford to followed suit. It took a few more years before Gotham became like it is now, but Bruce saw it happen. He said he wanted to make Gotham like it used to be before: safe. So no more kids would have to watch their parents get shot in front of them. And that wouldn't have changed, even if the cops had caught the killer that same night."

He took another breath. "I think catching Zucco helped in some ways. I didn't have nightmares about him coming after me. At least, not for long. But… well… I also got a taste of," his lips twitched, "dishing out justice before the courts got the opportunity. Guess we can debate if that's good or bad. Why the sudden interest?"

Cass shrugged again. "Dunno. Bruce didn't think you were too young?" This time, the proper sentence structure came more easily.

Dick considered. "I think he did at first. But I know I reminded him a lot of himself after he lost his parents. I was angry. I wanted my parents' killer brought to justice. I didn't like a bunch of grownups telling me that they were going to handle it and then not seeing them making any headway. I wasn't exactly stupid. And… I guess I was stubborn enough that Bruce didn't think he could talk me out of it." He smiled. "Anything else you want to know?"

Cass was silent for a moment. "Dunno," she repeated. "Thinking." _About Clara. Angry. Smart. Stubborn. Doesn't like… a bunch of grownups telling her that they were handling and then not seeing progress…_ She tried to squelch her next thought. It would be too dangerous. Dick would never allow it. She shouldn't allow herself to think it, not after Stephanie—who had also been angry and stubborn. Smart in many ways, too, just not the ones that might have saved her life. But the thought she tried to push away would not be suppressed. _New Robin?_

* * *

"I'm sending you an email," Clark said tersely. "The usual encryptions. And remember, this is not one hundred percent confirmed. I was flying by the MPD headquarters and overheard a conversation. They are keeping it quiet because once the word is out… you know it's going to be a race to get them into custody before the Families take care of it in their way. And even once they are in custody, they may not be safe."

Oracle nodded. "Got it." She let out a breath. "So… these are the gunmen who took out almost ten percent of the Gotham crime families."

"And, according to the MPD's data, they're headed your way."


	48. 47: Talking to Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "A Lot Like Me" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Hometown Girl album (Columbia, 1987).
> 
> There are several canon versions of Tony Zucco's fate. For this story, I've combined two of them. Dick initially believes that Tony Zucco died of a heart attack after being spooked by a very young, very angry Robin (Dark Victory). Some time later, he discovers that Zucco was revived in the hospital, stood trial and was sentenced to life in prison. He was released on parole nearly a decade later, but gunned down at the prison gates (Batman: Year Three).

_There's a wealth of danger when you're talking to strangers, and I meet them all the time  
But my heart knew better than my head when I looked into those eyes_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "A Lot Like Me"_

**Chapter 47—Talking to Strangers**

"You seem inordinately preoccupied," Jeremiah remarked, his dry voice slicing into her thoughts.

Cass blinked, startled. "Huh?"

Rather than rephrase his initial statement, he repeated it.

"Oh," she tried to smile. "Yes."

Jeremiah frowned. "You understood what I said?" he asked.

"Yes," Cass nodded. "Thinking."

"Cass," Jeremiah's voice was concerned. "Is there any way in which I can help?" When she blinked, he smiled thinly. "You _are_ aware that I am a psychiatrist. If there's some issue you'd like to discuss, I'm perfectly willing to listen to anything on your mind."

Cass shook her head. "No. Sorry." There were some things she couldn't discuss. Although… "Not me. Someone else."

"A friend of yours?"

She shook her head again. "Not… exactly. She… wants to do something…" she hesitated, "…dangerous. Told her not to."

"But…?"

Cass sighed. "She won't listen. I don't think." She closed her eyes. "If I help… looks like I think she's right. If not… if she gets hurt..."

Jeremiah frowned. "I'm presuming that you're acting as a friend, rather than as a counselor and thus, not bound by any sort of confidentiality agreement. That gives you an option I'm seldom able to take advantage of myself. Is there another individual whom this person respects and would listen to? Perhaps you could enlist their help."

She thought for a moment. The man (Cass guessed he was a bodyguard) whom Clara had called 'Bruno'. He knew what was going on. Maybe his dressing down had been enough to make Clara rethink her objectives, but… Cass had seen an all-too-familiar stubborn gleam in the girl's eyes two nights ago. Cass suspected that Clara might listen for a time, but sooner or later, she would strike out again, and probably sooner. She considered further. She could talk to Bressi, but she didn't know enough about the mob boss to gauge how he'd react. Or whether she'd be risking Bruno's life by letting Bressi know that Clara had nearly gotten killed on his watch. Or whether Bressi might decide that if his great-niece wanted to fight that badly, maybe she _should_ be trained—to kill. She shook her head. "No."

Jeremiah closed his eyes. Then he removed his glasses and pulled a case out of his breast pocket and extracted a polishing cloth. "You _have_ got a problem," he admitted.

"Yes."

"Does this person know that she can talk to you if she needs someone to listen?"

"No."

His thin smile was back. "Perhaps it would help if she did. Sometimes, all we need is someone to listen to what we have to say."

Cass smiled back.

"Of course," Jeremiah said, replacing his glasses and picking up a printout of one of the worksheets that she'd emailed him yesterday, "at other times, we need a bit more. I have been going over your algebra exercises and I believe that you currently need a bit more practice with factoring polynomials…"

* * *

Barbara didn't say anything when Dick came home from work and—after coming up to her office to kiss her hello—made a beeline for the corner of the room that he'd set up as a mini-gym with rings, uneven bars, a balance beam, a vaulting horse, and a number of exercise mats. Not while he began a routine on the bars that appeared so easy as to be nearly effortless. As a former gymnast herself, Barbara knew better. It was a routine that she'd seen before—except that the Olympic athlete who'd attempted it had taken a flip too quickly, been thrown off his game, and fouled up his dismount. Dick nailed it.

It wasn't until he moved to the balance beam that she gave up all pretense of attending to her monitors. "Sheesh," she said, when Dick jumped up off the beam, performed a split in mid-air, and bent his head toward his left foot in a ring before touching back down to the beam, "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or annoyed that you pulled that one off. The beam isn't even a men's event."

"No," Dick admitted as he executed four perfect flips to the end of the beam, rolled to a somersault dismount and surged up to stick the landing. "But maybe it ought to be. Or maybe I just like a challenge."

"Or maybe you've got a problem you're trying to work through."

Dick sighed and grabbed his towel from the wall hook. "Am I really that obvious?"

"Did you just come in straight from work and start in on a routine that would get you automatic placement on the US gymnastics team and citizenship offers from at least a dozen other countries if you'd only compete for them, without even mentioning how your day went? Yeah, you're that obvious."

"Work was okay," Dick said with a tired smile. "I'm still sitting on that time bomb you handed me. The gunmen."

"Ah," Barbara nodded.

"If I tell Bressi… I honestly think he means to keep his word about not killing them. That doesn't mean some of his own people won't get a little enthusiastic. If they do, yes, I'll bring them in. Then Bressi hooks them up with a slick defense team and, odds are, they walk. If I don't tell him… if I go after them myself, I probably lose this alliance. Oh, the families unite, all right—to take down both me and Intergang. Plus, Tony probably loses face, leaving him wide open for some sort of coup and," he closed his eyes and shook his head, "whoever replaces him will probably be a lot worse. Besides," he admitted, "I like Tony. Well, I respect him anyway. I know where he's coming from; I know what he wants; and he knows how far he can push before I'm going to push back. Maybe we don't see eye to eye and maybe we'll never be friends, but when our backs are to the wall, we can each be reasonably sure one of us won't knife the other in the side."

"You know Penguin and I share intel every now and again," Barbara reminded him. "Politics isn't the only game in town to make strange bedfellows. So…"

"So, I can only sit on this for so long before Tony either finds out about the gunmen through his sources or he finds out I've been holding out on him."

"What are you going to do?"

He gestured toward the vaulting horse. "Work on some Yurchenkos. Then…" he gave her a reluctant smile, "…then I think I'm going to tell Bressi. I just need to work out exactly what I'm going to tell him."

"Good luck with that."

Dick sighed. "Thanks. Actually, I could use all the luck I can get—and not just with that."

"I know," Barbara smiled back. "But I don't want you to start getting greedy."

His smile broadened to a grin. Then he turned on his heel and took a running leap for the vaulting horse.

* * *

Clara Bressi waited until Bruno was totally engrossed in the morning paper before she sucked the last bit of chocolate milk up through her straw with a loud slurp and was rewarded by his deepening glower. "Oops," she said, trying to sound innocent.

Bruno sighed. "Finish up. Rico's bringing the car around in about five minutes."

She took another spoonful of cereal. "Does it have to be the limo, Bruno?" she asked. "All the other kids are going to stare. Don't we have a normal car, like maybe one that isn't black with tinted windows and needing three parking spots? Or maybe I could bike it," she suggested hopefully. "I need the exercise."

"From what I saw the other night," Bruno shot back, "exercise is one thing you've been getting plenty of. Your _prozio_ wants you to go to school in style, so that's how you go."

Clara exhaled noisily. "I'm not making friends," she warned. "The other kids all think I'm stuck up."

"Yeah? Well, if they're judging you by the kind of car you don't even drive, then maybe those aren't the kids you should have for friends anyway."

"It's the whole school, Bruno!"

The enforcer shook his head and set down the paper. "No, it ain't. It's five or six popular kids who probably get driven to school in cars that are every bit as fancy and thought they were on top until you came along. And now, the only way they can pump themselves up is by trying to keep you down. And you want to go out and deal with serious stuff? _Carina_ , if you can't deal with the petty things on your own, why should I think you can handle yourself any better with what you've been trying to pull at night?"

"So, what? You want me to use MMA on 'em? Bash 'em in the head and leave 'em bolted to lampposts?"

Bruno sighed. "You're smart enough to know I don't mean that, _carina_. There are other ways to deal with stuff like that."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I think you're probably smart enough to figure that bit out, too."

Clara made a sour face. "In other words, you don't know."

"Hey, _carina_ , I never said I was as smart as you." He looked up to see another man standing in the kitchen doorway pointing at his wristwatch. Bruno nodded at him and turned back to Clara. "Go on. Get outta here."

The girl nodded and pushed sullenly away from the table. Head down, she picked up her school bag and trudged toward the doorway.

"Hey, _carina_?" She didn't turn. "Clara?"

Clara sighed and glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Yeah?"

Bruno smiled. "Study hard so you don't forget anything. That goes for what you get taught outside the classroom, too. If you get me."

She met his eyes then, hope and an unasked question on her face.

"The better you know your old stuff, the less time you need to waste on review before tackling the new stuff, yeah?"

Clara nodded. "See you later, Bruno."

Even though she tried not to smile, Bruno noticed that she nearly skipped out of the kitchen this time. He shook his head ruefully and took a sip of black coffee.

* * *

Hush leaned back in his padded desk chair and regarded the men seated before him. "So," he said, "first you attempt to kill me—or at least my stunt double—and now you come making overtures of friendship. Are you sure you haven't got it a bit backwards? Usually the double-cross comes _after_ the alliance."

The elder of the two men coughed and covered his mouth with nicotine-stained fingers. The younger smiled. "That wasn't a double-cross; it was a test. We don't make offers to idiots. Anyone who showed up to that meeting and didn't have a survival instinct kick in before it was too late? Nobody we want in our organization. Well, Mister, not only did _you_ pass the test, but so did your cannon fodder. We can definitely use you."

Hush smiled. "Interesting," he said. "However, I'm not entirely certain that I'd like to be used. Particularly not in the current climate. You've angered some rather dangerous people."

"We can handle them," the older man replied.

"Oh, no doubt," Hush nodded. "For now. When you're fighting for your place in this city. But it is not enough to win a war; it is more important to organize the peace. When the dust settles, where will you be?"

The younger man leaned forward, a fervent gleam in his eye. "In charge," he said simply. "With certain capable and trusted individuals working under us. We'd like you to be one of them."

Hush was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "How long might I have to consider your proposition?"

"We can call on you, say, day after tomorrow?" The older one spoke this time.

"Very good," Hush replied. "Mr. King, if you'll see these gentlemen out?"

The two men blinked as another figure rose from the shadows in the corner of the room. It was evident they hadn't spotted him until now. They said nothing as he moved to escort them from the room.

When he returned, Hush was fiddling with the bandages wrapping his hands. "Well," Hush said, "that went as expected. What do you think?"

King removed his hat and massaged his face for several seconds. When he took his hands away, King had vanished and False Face stood in his place. "I'll need more intel before I can take over," he admitted. "Imitating the voice and appearance won't be difficult, but if you mean for me to replace one of them for anything that needs to stand up under scrutiny, I'll have to know more about him."

"Understandable," Hush nodded. "I've been putting out feelers through my usual channels. Cobblepot is being his usual cooperative self—provided I pay for his service." He opened his desk drawer and extracted two folders. "I presume you'd prefer to become Halloran? The gentleman in his late forties?"

False Face nodded back. "He's already my height. I'll need to lose a few pounds, but I've done that before when necessary."

"Then here," Hush slid the topmost folder across the desk. "Familiarize yourself with the contents; let me know if there are any details you'd particularly like to flesh out so that I can steer the conversation at the next meeting appropriately."

"When do you intend for me to make the switch?"

Hush's smile grew wider. "Oh, I'd say shortly after I leak news of Halloran's whereabouts to one of the Families. Once he's permanently out of the way, there are steps that can be taken to keep that information from making it back to Metropolis for a time. And meanwhile…"

A malicious answering grin was False Face's only reply.

* * *

Clara Bressi waited until study hall two days later before she made her way to the combined gym and auditorium. She looked quickly up and down the corridor to ensure that nobody was coming before she carefully pulled the door open and slipped inside, keeping her hand on the wood to hold it open. As she'd hoped, it was empty. She pulled her arm back slowly, so that the door wouldn't make much noise as it shut behind her.

The lights were off, but the sun coming in from the small Corsica glass windows, set high near the ceiling, gave her enough light to see across the hall to the stage at the far end and the two curtained doorways that led to the backstage area and dressing rooms. Once she passed through the closest of these, she found herself in a small area with white plaster walls and a terrazzo floor. She ignored the stairs to her left, that would take her backstage and focused on the emergency fire door directly ahead. Now came the tricky part.

"I know you can't believe everything you read," she muttered, as she reached into her jacket pocket for the pages that she'd printed out earlier, folded in half, and then folded in half again, "but here's hoping this works."

She pulled a pair of wire cutters out of her pencil case and looked at the printout for instructions. It didn't take long for her to see that she had a problem. "How do you cut wires when there are no wires to cut?" she muttered under her breath. She let out a noisy sigh. Then she slapped her forehead. "I am such an idiot!" she exclaimed. If she wanted to get out of the building unnoticed, she had another option. She shoved the printout back into her pocket together with the wire cutter. She pulled on the thin gloves she'd been carrying in her other pocket against chilly spring mornings, even though she hadn't needed to wear them in nearly a month. And then, she placed both hands on the rounded lever bar of the emergency door and pushed.

The fire alarm sounded immediately, but she didn't pause. Instead, she darted out of the building and into the parking lot. She crouched down between the parked cars and waited. From her position, she could see the younger classes emerge through another door. The littler kids were taking advantage of the unexpected break to start running around outside, much to the consternation of their teachers who were trying to keep order and take attendance.

She waited until she was sure that nobody was paying attention before she turned around and, still hunched over, started running as best she could.

There was a small parkette a block away and she collapsed on a bench to catch her breath.

When the leather-gloved hand came down on her shoulder, she opened her mouth to scream, but the second hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her cry.

* * *

This time, Hush kept them waiting a full fifteen minutes before he allowed them entrance to his office. It was all psychological. He wanted them to believe that they needed him far more than he needed them. He also didn't want them thinking for one moment that he was prepared to shrug off the Metropolis Massacre as some sort of job interview. No, it wasn't a question of whether they thought that he was fit to ally with them. Hush wanted to know whether _they_ were fit to ally with him! And he had just the test, too…

When the two Intergang representatives entered, he ignored them, concealing his face behind the large computer monitor on his desk. He let them think that he was engrossed in some sort of report, even as he rotated the 'L'-shaped piece until it was on its side and moved it into position, eliminating another row. When he finally lost the Tetris game, he debated whether to start a new one, but—noting that his guests had been waiting patiently, not even clearing their throats in protest—decided he'd kept them waiting long enough. "Good day, gentlemen."

Halloran smiled and returned the greeting. "Have you thought about our proposal?"

"I've given it its due consideration," Hush nodded. "On paper, it's attractive. However, I am concerned about one thing: nowhere in your proposal did I note a plan for dealing with, how shall I put this? Um… caped interference?"

The shorter man, Tencer, shrugged. "Superman's in Metropolis. We've managed there. We'll manage here."

"How?" Hush demanded.

Halloran coughed. "Our higher-ups haven't seen fit to take us into their confidence, but one would think that if our organization can survive in a city with an alien who can fly, repel bullets, bend steel with his bare hands—"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of his powers," Hush cut him off. "I'm also aware that he tends to hold back when dealing with non-meta threats. Our local contingent has no such scruples. They stop short of killing, but…" He held up his hands meaningfully. He'd left the bandages off today and the two long scars—legacies of the batarangs that had impaled them and ended his surgical career some three years earlier—were plainly visible. "I'd hardly consider them pushovers."

"Perhaps not for you," Halloran allowed. "We don't anticipate any problems."

Hush maintained his poker face, even as he seethed inwardly. "I'd like more assurances."

"Such as…?"

Behind his bandages, Hush smiled. "I'm sure you're aware that the original Batman is currently enrolled at the Police Academy. I'd like you to arrange for him to suffer some kind of accident. Something lingering; it doesn't have to be fatal, though I won't be upset if it turns out to be. Doing that will likely erode the alliance that the current Batman has made with a significant chunk of the Gotham underworld, as he'll be too preoccupied with his predecessor's fate to spare the Bressi coalition much thought."

"Yeah, but that's gonna bring him down on our necks," Tencer snapped.

"Well, yes," Hush admitted. "But then, you did say that you could deal with him, correct?" His voice hardened. "You want to convince me that you can make a serious bid for power in this city? You prove to me that when you say you can take out the Bats, it's more than just talk. And until it is more than just talk, gentlemen," his blue eyes turned steely, "I don't think there's anything else to discuss. After all," he added dryly, "a likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility." He looked from one to the other. "Now get the hell out of my office until you have something I want to hear."

He'd started another Tetris game before the door closed behind them.

* * *

Clara bit down on the glove and was rewarded by a stifled gasp. When she'd been a little bit younger, she'd once surprised a sleeping feral cat, thinking to take it home with her and adopt it. The cat had awakened instantly, fighting mad, hissing and spitting, and—in less than three seconds—it had been free and she'd had a bite between her thumb and forefinger and several long bleeding scratches on her arm. She remembered that now and tried to channel that sheer ferocity to get loose from her unknown assailant. Unfortunately, she was no cat and her attacker wasn't some stupid fourth-grader.

"Clara," a vaguely-familiar voice said, "stop."

Like hell. She twisted and struggled in her attacker's grip, sure that if she could do it just right, she'd be free. At the same time, she bit down harder on the glove.

"Clara," the voice sounded strained. "Not enemy. Won't hurt. I take hand away, you won't yell? Listen?"

Now she knew where she'd heard the voice before. It was the strange clipped English, uttered in a voice without a trace of a foreign accent that reminded her. She nodded tersely and relaxed her teeth's grip on the glove. The hand was withdrawn. "Batgirl?" she whispered.

"Yes." She tapped the back of the bench next to Clara. "Okay I sit?" she asked.

"Uh… sure."

The hand on her shoulder released her. A moment later, Batgirl joined her on the bench. "Didn't mean to scare," she said. "Saw you leave school. Figured you… didn't want others seeing. Afraid you might run."

Clara shrugged. "I wasn't scared," she lied. "What do you want?"

"What you want," Batgirl said. "Justice."

"Yeah, sure," Clara snorted. "Let me guess: it's gonna take time and I gotta be patient. Sheesh, you grownups are all alike."

"Not really."

Was that amusement in the masked woman's voice? "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Not laughing," Batgirl clarified. "Not… at you. Don't… I mean, _I_ don't hear people say I'm… like your family. Not… much."

Clara sighed. "You can say the M-word, you know."

"M-word?"

"Mob. Sheesh. It's like everyone knows but they're afraid if they say it, a bunch of guys with tommy-guns and trench coats will come bursting onto the scene, grab 'em, stick their feet in cement blocks and throw 'em in the harbor. I'm like, hello! It's not like that today." She sniffed. "Probably never was. Sorry. Old rant. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Batgirl hesitated. "What we do. Dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah." She'd heard this before a million times.

"Takes time. Practice. Pain."

"I know."

"Also… code."

"My family has one," she said. Then in an undertone, "at least, the grownups do. Nobody's ever spelled out for me what it is—besides 'don't be a snitch'."

"Mine is… no killing. Justice for everyone. Even if I think… they don't deserve. Let court decide."

Clara sniffed. "Yeah, how's that working out for you? Look, I get it. You're a Bat, so you're one of the good guys. I'm a Bressi, so I'm not. You think your way's better than ours? Let me tell you something: once it gets to the courts, it's not up to justice, it's up to who's got the slickest attorney—and my family? We've got the best. So we go through your justice system and get off and then we go out and dispense some _real_ justice. Or, at least, the guys do. Or they say they're trying to. Your way? You find the creeps who killed my dad. Intergang lawyers 'em up and they either walk or they get sentenced to time served or they get a fine… or maybe, someone thinks they can actually get them facing something harder, but then the witnesses disappear. Or they chicken out. And then those guys get free and they get to do the same shi—" she hesitated. "The same… garbage again to some other guy. Our way? We stop 'em once and they never get to do it again. You really think your way's better?"

Batgirl took a deep breath. "Wasn't always… Bat." she said. "Wasn't always good guy." She tilted her head, questioning. "Good… girl? Woman?"

"Whatever."

"I do think my way is better," she said slowly. "Tried other first."

Clara blinked. "No way."

"Yes."

"Who? How? When?"

Cass sighed. "Don't know. Death strike. Long ago. I was younger. Than you. I think… maybe… eight." She sighed. "I know what you say makes sense." A lighter note came into her tone for a moment. "Maybe more sense than my… speech. Sorry. I… know how I… sound."

"It's not that bad," Clara said generously.

"Thanks. Practicing. I know," she repeated, "what you say makes sense. But sometimes… things can make sense and still be… wrong. Killing changes you. Not for good. It's not…" she hesitated. "Even if they deserve. You kill, it… punishes you too. Clara. Please. Don't. We will find them. Promise. May take time, but we will find."

"You came all the way here to tell me that?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Sorry I scared you."

"It's okay." Then she realized she'd just admitted to being scared when she'd denied it earlier. "Or it would be if I'd been scared," she added hastily. "Anything else?"

For a moment, she thought that Batgirl had more to say. Then, the masked woman shook her head. "Not now. But maybe… talk again? Better time?"

Clara blinked. "You want to talk to me. Again."

"Problem?"

She shook her head. "Uh… no. No, sure. I've got lunch at 12:30 every day. I can come here."

"Next week?"

She was serious. "Sure."

Batgirl rose to her feet and Clara followed suit. "Clara… why did you leave… school?"

Clara sighed. "I wanted to see if I could get away. I got away. But I guess I knew I'd have to go back and face the music sooner or later. Like before my _prozio_ 's driver comes to pick me up at three. May as well face it now."

She squared her shoulders and trotted off in the direction of the school.

* * *

Batgirl watched her go and shook her head slowly. Her gut feeling was that Clara needed a friend far more than she did a trainer right now. And it was too soon to tell if she would be willing to take on a new code in place of her family's. And Batgirl had no idea how to mentor anyone. But she knew scared and angry and lonely when she saw it. And since she had seen it, she was determined to do something about it. She only hoped that 'something' would be the right thing.

Maybe _she_ needed to talk to somebody about this. Bruce would tell her to drop the idea. Dick probably would, too. From what she'd heard, Bruce had never gone looking for his Robins. They'd found him. Well, she'd found Clara, but she had no idea what Bruce had seen in the young men he'd taken in that had made him think they were right for the job.

What had made him choose _her_? She thought back. He'd known that she was Cain's protégé almost immediately. Barbara had probably told him that she was his daughter, too. Clearly being born into a family of killers wasn't necessarily an obstacle. Not when she'd made it clear from the beginning that she was against killing. Bruce had never disbelieved her values. How did Clara feel about killing? When they'd first grappled together, Cass had patted the younger girl down in the process. She'd carried no overt weapon—though she knew from Bruce's report that the girl carried certain items that could be _used_ as weapons, such as cologne. Of course, Clara was still a child. It was possible that she would have carried a gun if she could have gotten her hands on one. Insufficient data. That was a term she'd heard Bruce use before. She had insufficient data to reach a conclusion.

She thought about Dick. He was an excellent teacher, but he'd had too many of his trainees—the ones he'd tried to teach long term; not the ones who'd come to him for help with a specific technique or maneuver—turn out to be trouble. Either they'd been criminals or they'd been reckless—and sometimes, both. It wasn't Dick's fault. Anyone could see that. Except Dick. He'd probably try to talk her out of training Clara, if only because he didn't want to see her get hurt if Clara disappointed her. And, of course, it would put him in an awkward position, so long as he was working with Bressi.

And Tim? Between Dodge and Stephanie, she didn't even want to try.

Barbara, then. Cass smiled. Barbara had approved of her even before Bruce had. She'd known about Cain. And she wasn't as tied to Bressi. If Barbara tried to convince her not to take Clara on as a student, then it would be with a clearer head and far less baggage than any of the others might have in this matter. And then, Barbara would tell Dick and she'd be right back where she started.

Cass groaned inwardly. There was no way to avoid it: no matter who she spoke to, somebody was going to try to talk her out of this. Maybe it was time to admit that they probably had good reasons for it.

Maybe it was time to rethink.

* * *

Batman and Huntress didn't work together often. It had little to do with their previous relationship; Dick had dated several teammates in the past and, even when the romance had failed, the working partnerships remained. (In Barbara's case, of course, the working partnership had eventually led to a rekindling of the romance.) No, the fact was that Dick's life currently revolved around Gotham and Helena's… didn't. She still worked here; Barbara had found her a part-time teaching position at the Gotham Academy, drilling the advanced gymnastics team. As a member of the Birds of Prey, however, she spent far more time away from the city than inside it. More than once, she'd only managed to keep up her teaching responsibilities with the help of the JLA transporter—a service that Black Canary, as current head of the League, was only too happy to provide.

Tonight was an exception, though. Huntress was back in town and, in Catwoman's absence, happy to do her part in keeping the local crime down. Particularly when it involved stopping the Mandragoras. Dick understood that. If Tony Zucco had lived and been out there tonight, then Batman would have been especially sure to single the mobster out for personal attention.

"Well?" he asked, as Huntress touched down lightly on the rooftop beside him.

Huntress sighed. "You want something I can prove, or you want my gut instinct?"

"I'll take what I can get."

From what he could see of her face under the mask, she was glowering. "Inzerillo's had it in for Panessa for over a decade. Ricky Mandragora—Roberto's youngest kid—could have been up on arson charges at least a dozen times, but his father knows the right palms to grease if you want embarrassing family problems to slide away. I'm not kidding about the embarrassing part. Ricky's got… issues. He's no Garfield Lynns, mind you; he doesn't use fire for artistic expression. But ever since he was about fourteen or so, it's been understood: you burn him, he burns _you_ ; usually with a gasoline soaked rag and a match. Roberto can usually keep him under control, but I'm thinking Inzerillo's trying to put his hobby to good—and I use the term loosely—use."

"But you don't have proof."

"Proof of arson? Yes. But you don't need me for that; the CSI report already confirms it. And five of Panessa's buildings going up in smoke in three days? There's no way that's accidental. But proof of Ricky? Don't I wish."

Dick sighed. "Meanwhile, I have other problems. According to Penguin, the gunmen responsible for the Metropolis Massacre are here. And under the agreement I've made with Bressi…"

Huntress smiled. "You know, your significant other _does_ head up a team too—a team I'm actually affiliated with. And since, from what I hear, you're currently climbing the corporate ladder, might I make a business suggestion to you?" She paused for a beat. "Try outsourcing some of your operations. Quietly, of course. I can just about guarantee you that those guys will be looking at a whole world of hurt—but more along the lines of your style, rather than Bressi's."

Behind his cowl, Batman blinked. Then a broad smile spread his lips. "You realize that I can't know anything about the gunmen's whereabouts until those whereabouts turn out to be a holding cell. If Bressi even suspects I'm keeping this from him…"

"You won't be. Hell, right now, you can even say that you know they're in Gotham and you're trying to work out where. Tell Bressi you've got a source that's keeping a careful eye out for those guys and that this source will advise you when something turns up. Because she will. She'll just give her other team a one-hour head start, is all." She blinked. "Could you please not grin when you're wearing that cowl?" she demanded. "It looks positively creepy."

Batman's smile grew even wider.

* * *

He was still smiling when he slipped into Oracle's office later that night, right up until the moment that Barbara wheeled away from her console, her lips pressed firmly together and her knuckles white around the arms of her chair.

He steeled himself before he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Barbara took a deep breath. "You could say that," she said. "I got some intel earlier. Based on what I've learned tonight, your alliance with Bressi might be getting set to implode any time, now."


	49. 48. Tempting Fate and Taking Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "I Take My Chances" written and performed by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Come On, Come On album (Columbia, 1992).

_Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate_  
_And for them I would not disagree_  
_But I never learned nothing from playing it safe_  
_I say fate should not tempt me_

_I take my chances…_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "I Take My Chances"_

# 

**Tempting Fate and Taking Chances**

"She did _what?_ " Dick exclaimed, sounding, for once, not unlike Bruce when facing down one of Gotham's worst.

Barbara sighed. "Judging by your tone, I think you heard me. She's offering to… help Clara Bressi. From the sound of things, the kid's already striking out on her own. Cass says she's trying to keep her safe, and I believe her. Even so..."

"Even so," Dick snapped, "there is no way that this ends well. Even if she weren't Bressi's grand-niece, even if she weren't connected to the mob, even if she wasn't probably brought up to consider murder as a viable option in certain cases, she is a minor and the police know who I am. If I'm seen with a twelve-year-old partner, then it's a tossup who nails me first: Bressi or Sawyer."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "How did we get from Cass training Clara to your getting a new Robin?"

"How did we get from Tim palling around with Stephanie to Bruce getting a new Robin to Black Mask torturing her and killing her? It doesn't matter whether I get a new partner or Cass does. Sawyer's right to see us as a team, and me as team leader. In Sawyer's eyes, in Bressi's eyes, if any of us take on a kid partner, it might as well be me—or we might as well be saying I can't control my people."

"Well, you can't," Barbara pointed out.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't control us. We stick with you of our own free will because you almost always know what you're doing. I'm pretty sure you do, now. But at the end of the day, if we choose not to follow you, there's not much you can do to keep us in line. I mean… you can pull a full-Bruce and kick us out of the Caves or tell us we can't wear the costumes. Think back a few years, Dick, and tell me how well that worked on _you_."

"Whose side are you on?" Dick demanded, his anger yielding partially to bewilderment.

Barbara sighed. "Both. Neither. I don't know. I do know what it's like to want justice and not think it's going to happen through the courts. So do you," she added. "I also know," she let out a noisy sigh, "what happened to Spoiler. So does Cass. I think… she sees a lot of Steph in Clara. At least, from the way Cass described her… she might as well have been talking about Steph. And there are a couple of parallels."

"Cluemaster didn't head up a mob family."

"I know. But on another note, neither did David Cain."

Dick froze.

"If Cain hadn't backed away when Cass made it clear she wanted to be with us, would Bruce have sent her off out of concern that Cain would come after us? Would you?"

Dick shook his head. "It didn't happen that way."

"No… but it could have. Right now, there's a kid out there who lost a parent to mob violence, who's already putting on a homemade costume and trying to track down the person who did it, because she has no reason to believe that the law will handle it. Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

"Do NOT compare any of this to Zucco!" Dick said furiously.

Barbara sighed. "I was actually thinking about how Bruce started out. You're right, though. That's another parallel." When Dick didn't respond, she pressed on. "There's a hell of a lot we don't know about her. We don't know whether her brand of justice involves killing. We don't know if she's got what it takes to join us, or whether she should be joining us. We don't know what kinds of skills she has. We don't even know if she'll hang up that homemade costume the day the men who killed her father face justice. But there's one thing I do know: she's going out there now, with or without our blessing. If we don't help her and anything should happen to her…"

"What? Cass will never forgive me?"

"No," Barbara sighed. "I think she will. But if you order her to back down, she obeys, and Clara suffers, she'll never forgive herself."

Dick sighed. "She won't, will she? All right. Fine. Huntress said something earlier about outsourcing some of my jobs to the Birds. Mind taking Cass on temporary assignment? Have her work with Huntress. And see if Huntress can put herself into a position where she can assess what's going on with Clara. If she thinks there's something there, and if she takes lead on training her, that makes it a bit more palatable. I don't have Sawyer giving me grief. I have something verging on plausible deniability with Bressi…"

"Helena Bertinelli might have a reason to sit at Bressi's table with her surviving family members. It's possible that Bressi's being as open with you as he can be, but still not as open as he would be with the families. Helena being part of that could work in our favor. Especially since they don't know she's got a thing for skin-tight purple leotards with matching capes."

"Now why didn't we think of that sooner?" Dick asked, smiling for the first time. He sobered quickly. "You'll sound her out? On both aspects?"

"First thing tomorrow."

Dick sighed. "I still don't like involving a kid."

"To hear Cass tell it, the kid is involving herself."

Dick's brow furrowed. "Kids today are completely out of control."

"I don't think that's really changed all that much since our day." She smiled. "I had a couple of people trying to rein me in, too. Couple of really pigheaded guys, if I remember right. Stubborn like you wouldn't believe. But, eventually, they came to see reason."

"By which you mean that we came to see things your way."

Barbara shrugged. "Tomayto, tomahto."

Dick chuckled. Then he bent down and pulled her gently in for a kiss.

* * *

"So," Enrico Inzerillo concluded his pitch, "I'm offering for you and your… patron to come in with me and forge an alliance against the outsiders looking to tear apart this fair city of ours. We get a few more interests involved, like the Mandragoras, Devlin Davenport, maybe Nicky Moxon's crew. And then, when we've sent Intergang packing, maybe we can even squeeze out Bressi's boys and it all falls to us. I've had my eye on youse for a while, kid. You're smart. Plus you're a real go-getter. You remind me a lot of me when I was your age. I know you're looking for a piece of the action, and I'm happy to deliver. So, whaddaya say?"

Mr. Fixx regarded nervous mobster solemnly for a moment. Enrico Inzerillo didn't look as though he'd had a good night's sleep in days. His fingernails were ragged, and he was unwrapping his third piece of nicotine gum in the last half hour. Fixx smiled genially and Inzerillo responded in kind, not quite able to hide his relief. Fixx waited for the mobster to relax.

Then he laughed in his face.

"You must be so desperate right now," Fixx said, still chuckling, "that I can't even be insulted that you think I'm dumb enough to join up with you. If you're looking for stooges who don't know how badly you've bungled your life, I think you'll have better luck if you try…" he frowned, thinking, "um…" He shrugged apologetically. "Maybe, try Opal City? Cloister, Vermont? Fairfax, Maine?" He shook his head. "No, come to think of it, they probably know your situation out there by now. Hmmm…" He frowned for a moment, pretending to ponder. Then he brightened. "Wait. I've got it. Enrico… I can call you 'Enrico', right?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a pen and started scribbling on a napkin. "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to book yourself an air ticket from Gotham to Ushuaia, Argentina."

"What?" Inzerillo asked faintly.

Fixx smiled. "Hear me out. From Ushuaia, you're going to get on a boat. I think there's a cruise line… yeah, Ocean Expeditions—that's it. You leave with them and they'll take you on a tour of the south Atlantic. You'll sail across the Drake Passage and make a few stops along the way… South Georgia, Gough Island, Tristan da Cunha… and then, after you've been at sea for about three weeks, you'll arrive at St. Helena. Now, on St. Helena, in Jamestown, you go to the Consulate Hotel. Go into the bar area. You'll see a middle-aged man with curly gray hair in a pea-green overcoat, answers to the name of 'Salty'. And I can just about guarantee you that Salty has NO idea whatsoever how badly screwed you are right now. Talk to him about your little business venture." He looked down solemnly at his watch. "But I'd leave for the airport now. Because news travels fast and it's only a matter of time until it reaches even an isolated backwater like St. Helena."

A burst of laughter startled the mobster and he whirled to find that customers at several nearby tables had clearly been eavesdropping. As Inzerillo's face slowly reddened, they began to applaud.

The mobster got up angrily from his seat. "This isn't over!" he blustered. "Nobody talks like that to Enrico Inzerillo! Nobody!" Then he whirled and stomped out of the Iceberg, more laughter ringing in his ears.

Fixx sighed. "And he said he was paying for my drink," he said with mock sorrow to nobody in particular. "Ah, well."

Several patrons immediately offered to cover him.

* * *

Barbara sometimes wondered whether, despite being the information broker for the entire 'hero community', she wasn't occasionally being taken for granted. "You know, Harper," she mock-growled, "there's this amazing reference aid that's existed for a few years now called the internet? You must have heard of it."

On her viewscreen, Roy Harper grinned. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't be able to take this course online, would I?" he asked. His smile fell away. "It's not my fault that the addiction center wants all of its counseling staff to be certified now. At least they're paying for the courses."

"And they're expecting you to do your own homework, right?"

"Come on, Computer Geek Barbie, if the college wasn't in California, I'd be in their library, at their reference desk, bugging their staff. But since I'm taking the certification online… shouldn't I be asking for help from the greatest online librarian who ever lived?"

Barbara groaned. "I don't know what's worse," she grumbled. "That you're bugging me instead of using Giggle, or that you just called me 'Computer Geek Barbie' to my face."

"Or that my flattery is working on you?"

Barbara made a face. "More like my hero drive is kicking in, activating my urge to rescue the helpless and downtrodden. What do you need?"

As Roy started to explain, a soft beep drew Barbara's attention to another monitor. She debated whether to open the message now or wait until later. Cobblepot's tips were usually good, but they were sometimes extremely time-sensitive. She supposed it was his way of passing on a tip while safeguarding the interests of his frequent patrons. A few weeks ago, he had messaged her at 8:45PM to let her know of a drug shipment due to arrive at Miller Pier—at 9. If she had let the communication sit for even a few minutes, Tim would have missed the opportunity to intercept it before it could get out on the streets. With a mental sigh, she opened the email.

_My Dear Oracle,_

_I trust that this finds you as well as it leaves me. I thought that you might wish to be aware of some rather unfortunate developments with regard to one Enrico Inzerillo. The man was humiliated at my establishment yesterday evening and it's been my experience that desperate individuals frequently take desperate measures._

_While we generally occupy opposite ends of the playing field, I believe that we can come together on one salient point: any desperate measures taken by loose cannons at this juncture—or, perhaps, any juncture—will serve to violently upset the delicate balance that your people and mine are striving to maintain. I trust that you and yours will take the necessary measures to prevent this occurrence._

_Your humble servant,_

_O. Cobblepot, Esq._

There was an attachment with the message: a ninety-second video clip from one of the Iceberg's security feeds. No audio, but the cameras gave her a clear view of the speaker's face and lip-reading was a skill she'd perfected years ago. As she deciphered the words that Inzerillo's table companion was speaking, Barbara groaned. 'Delicate balance' was right. Dick was going to _love_ this.

"Red? Everything okay?" Roy was still on her screen, looking more serious than he had a moment ago. "Bad news?"

She shook her head. "No… more like yesterday's news—which might be worse than I thought it was yesterday."

"Huh?"

"Penguin's covering his well-feathered butt." She filled him in on the details. "Don't suppose you're up for coming in and stopping an idiot from doing something even more stupid?"

Roy shrugged. "Why not? This course is distance ed. I can log in anywhere." His lips twitched. "So… you prioritize Penguin's calls over mine, huh?"

"Well," Barbara feigned nonchalance, "his intel is usually pretty good. And…" She let her voice trail off and started counting down fifteen seconds.

Right on cue, Roy prompted her. "And…?"

She broke into a grin. " _And_ he has yet to call me 'Computer Geek Barbie'."

* * *

Batman dropped in on Bressi the next evening. "It appears that we have a mutual problem," he said dryly.

Bressi was in a good mood. "Oh?" He poured himself a glass of red wine. "Care for some?" he asked, half-rising to go to the sideboard for an empty glass.

"No thanks," Dick replied. "Alcohol doesn't exactly mix well with judgment or coordination."

Bressi set down the bottle, but didn't lift the glass. "Hm," he grunted, not at all offended. "Maybe I should hear what's on your mind before I indulge, then."

"Probably smart," Batman said. "I don't need to remind you that when I decided to forge an alliance to help contain the Intergang threat, your name wasn't the first on my list of people to approach." He smiled. "It wasn't the last, either."

"I've heard Inzerillo's been doing some sweating outside of the Broome Street Sauna," Bressi shrugged. "Made a scene in the Iceberg the other night, too."

Batman nodded. "So, you know then. He's getting panicky. And panicky people make the kinds of mistakes that ignite the situation we're trying to keep a lid on."

"You know something?" Bressi asked.

"I know he's trying to forge an alliance now. Penguin turned him down. So did a bunch of other people afterwards. That," his lips twitched, "was kind of what I was concerned about when I approached you: the more people who turn me down, the weaker my idea looks."

"So, if I'd rejected you, you might've gone approaching little _cugines_ like that Fixx kid? I don't think you're that stupid. Snot-nosed little punks like Micky Fixx—who ain't fooling nobody into thinking he's a bigshot, just 'cuz he demands to be called _Mister_ —they keep a lid on their ambitions, don't move too quick," he shrugged, "yeah, give him ten to fifteen years or so, let him pay his dues, make some contacts, and he might get his hands on some power in this city. If he's smart, stays patient, shows some respect, does a few favors for people with long memories, yeah, he could end up running something. Most kids like that, mind you, they don't stay patient for long enough. They want it all to come falling into their laps too much, too soon, and they start taking steps to make it happen. Then, one day, they walk down the wrong street and… they get unlucky. Catch a stray bullet in a gangland shooting, go sleepwalking and take a dive offa Miller Pier, cross against the light… plenty of ways for a person to go if they ain't careful."

Batman frowned. "And you handle that stuff."

Bressi laughed. "Me? I'm careful. I know where to walk and I know when to push and how hard. More important? I know when to walk away. You see, Batman, I'm a realist. Today—you and me? We're a team. Hey, in the Big Deuce, we got pretty chummy with the Russkies. Common enemy, common ground, only makes sense to unite against a force neither of us wants to see here. Once that war's over, we probably go back to trying to kill each other… Oh, right. You don't kill. So, you'll try to kill my business instead of me. Fine. I'm watching you just as close as you're watching me, trying to learn something about you that might give me an edge for my…" he laughed. "Let's call a spade a spade. My sudden but inevitable betrayal. And when it happens," he smiled ruefully, "there's always a slim chance it'll be when you really aren't expecting it. Probably won't work out that way, but a man can dream."

"You sure it's wise to be telling me this?" Batman asked with more than a hint of good humor.

"Hey, if you didn't already suspect I was thinking this way, you're not as smart as I thought and taking you down will be easier than I expect."

Batman winced. "I don't suppose that drink offer's still open?" he deadpanned. Bressi shrugged and started for the sideboard again, but Batman waved him back. "I wasn't serious. I am about Inzerillo, though. He might just be desperate enough to try something completely and utterly imbecilic." A thought struck him then and he weighed it experimentally before continuing. "I'd keep a closer eye on those kids you're looking after."

Bressi sucked in his breath. "You think…"

"I worry. When you want to hurt someone, you strike at what's most important to them. And Inzerillo definitely wants to hurt you. He might come after your business interests. He might just show up pretending to want to parley and pull a gun, figuring to take out as many of you as he can before you start fighting back."

"Or he might go after people who aren't part of this," Bressi said, nodding slowly. "The kids are in public school. During the day, they're vulnerable. It might not be a bad thing if I hired tutors, got them learning at home for the next little while."

Batman smiled. "It's something to consider."

And if Bressi was keeping a closer eye on those kids, then maybe the younger one would stop sneaking off and running the risk of getting into real trouble. So much for the easy part, he reflected. He took another breath. "There's more."

* * *

Years ago, Clara Bressi had found out by accident that there was a hidden passage in her great uncle's basement. She'd been visiting, when he'd been called away to a business meeting. He'd apologized for having to leave and suggested that she go into the games room and play some pinball. (Aunt Nadia had been home, but she'd had her mah-jong group over and couldn't spend time with her.) Neither pinball nor Pac-Man had held Clara's interest for long and she'd been walking aimlessly around the room, trailing one hand along the paneled wall, when she'd noticed that one of those panels wasn't flush with the others. When she'd examined it more closely, she'd realized that it was loose. Intrigued, she had pried it off and had seen a dim hallway behind it. Curiosity had gotten the better of her and she'd started down it. The floor was concrete and the walls were cinderblock. Dim fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling had provided enough illumination to see where she was going. At intervals, she'd come upon doors, each one located next to a louvered air vent and a window. At first, she'd been puzzled. There were no windows looking into the hallway from any of the basement rooms she knew of. Then she'd realized what it had to be. The games room boasted a good-sized mirror on one wall. She'd doubled back to confirm it: there was a window right behind where the mirror should have been and through it, she could see the room she'd just left. A one-way mirror next to a vent would mean that someone standing in this hallway could see and hear anything going on in the games room—and she would have bet that the whole basement was set up this way! Further exploration had proven her right.

She'd never mentioned her discovery to anyone, but on later visits, she'd used the passageway often, and learned a few things about her great uncle that she might not have found out otherwise. Both her father and Uncle Tony ("I'm not so great," he'd smiled, when he'd told her that she didn't have to refer to him as her great uncle) had tried to shield her from the knowledge about where their money and influence really came from. She'd known since she was ten.

There had been only two occasions when she'd nearly been discovered. Uncle Tony had a private office down here, although he usually preferred to have his guards inside the room with him in a show of strength, instead of observing from the passageway. The only times she'd heard footsteps coming down the passage, she'd quickly opened one of the other doors and slipped through. Once, she'd found herself in the garage; the other time, the laundry room. Each time, she'd resolved not to use the passage again. Each time, her resolve had only lasted until her next visit. These days, she used the passage not to spy, but mostly to get away when she wanted to be undisturbed.

She hadn't meant to lurk outside Uncle Tony's office. She hadn't known that he was in it. And she certainly hadn't realized that Batman was there, too. Once she knew he was, though, she'd simply _had_ to listen to the conversation. That was how she'd found out that her grounding was about to take a turn for the worse. Until now, she'd at least enjoyed some freedom at school. Now, even if Bruno decided that he could trust her again, she'd still be confined to the estate until further notice. That was bad enough. Then her ears pricked up.

"…Their names are Halloran and Tencer," Batman was saying. "They're definitely in Gotham, but they're moving around. I have an… associate…" Here, Clara was positive that he was trying not to laugh. She could guess why. For a guy who was supposed to be against everything her family stood for, he sure talked like one of them. He had to know it, too. "…who's trying to pinpoint their base of operations. I'll keep you in the loop."

"Check the Scituate," her uncle rumbled, "and the Hill. You're not the only guy with ears in this town. And we both know that sooner or later, everyone tries the Iceberg. Just let me know when you've located them and we'll take it from there."

Batman didn't reply.

Clara slumped to the floor, her back to the passage wall. She had a pretty good idea that Batman wasn't going to tell her uncle anything. He was going to let the police handle it, and the killers would either get out on bail and disappear, or they'd get some slick lawyer and be out on the streets again in no time. Her head snapped up angrily. There was no way that she was going to sit back and let that happen!

As she made her way back down the passageway, she was already formulating a plan for getting off of the estate grounds.

* * *

Cicero Tencer was a powerfully-built man, given to wearing lycra-blend shirts that showed off his biceps, and an expression halfway between a smile and a smirk that almost dared people to start up with him. His pat-down was thorough and professional. "He's clean," he remarked to his partner.

Joe Halloran relaxed. While he was certainly no slouch in the fitness department either, he found the weight of the pistol in his belt, casually concealed beneath his suit jacket, to be reassuring. Unlike Tencer's, his smile was genial. "All right, Inzerillo," he said. "Talk."

Enrico Inzerillo cleared his throat. "I want to cut a deal with Intergang."

The two other men exchanged a knowing glance. Tencer's smirk deepened. "What are you offering us?" he asked, chuckling slightly.

Inzerillo wiped his hands on his suit. "I handle pharmaceutical imports," he proclaimed. "Mostly product from Colombia. The shippers know me and mine. They're used to dealing with me. And there are certain peculiarities to the Gotham market that you might not be familiar with, coming from Metropolis and all. I can train your people, show them the ropes, make some introductions… In return, I keep my monopoly and Intergang gets forty percent of my gross. Also, I work with the other families, the ones who haven't gotten suckered in by Bressi's boys, to spin your entry into the Gotham markets as a win-win for all concerned."

Halloran's eyebrows shot up. "I can pass that information along to my superiors," he mused. "They'll consider your proposal and direct us on our next move. However, if you could demonstrate your commitment to smoothing Intergang's way in a fashion that's a bit more…" he paused, trying to find the right word, "…concrete?"

Inzerillo blanched. "Wh-what d'you mean?"

Tencer sighed. "Not _that_ kind of concrete," he said disgustedly. "Sheesh, are you guys still _doing_ the whole 'cement shoes' business in this day and age? We mean 'concrete', as in 'not abstract'. As in, you talk a good game, but how well do you walk it?"

"Oh!" Inzerillo almost laughed in relief. "What did you guys have in mind?"

Halloran smiled. "We'd like you to remove someone who's likely to become quite the thorn in our sides. If you'll just walk over here," he motioned toward a large corkboard against the far wall, with a map of the city and surrounding suburbs tacked dead center. "This…" he jabbed at a red circle just outside the northern city limits, "is the Gotham City Police Academy…"

* * *

"It's almost May," Selina lamented on Bruce's viewscreen. "I really thought we'd be back in Gotham by now."

Bruce shook his head. "I had hopes for the same," he admitted. "But the situation has escalated."

"I know," Selina sighed. "On the plus side, I've landed something part-time with the Great Cats Preservation Fund. Mostly, I'm answering questions over the phone, sending out brochures—it's all inbound."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up, but all he replied was, "I know that's one cause about which you're passionate."

Selina tilted her head to one side. "You know," she said, "most people don't think it's criminal to end a sentence with a preposition anymore. Or is that one still on the books in Gotham?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "My grammar lessons were more… old-school. It's good that you're staying busy," Bruce allowed himself a guarded smile, "so long as it makes you happy."

Her face fell. "It doesn't. It keeps me from climbing the walls. There's a difference. I'm not looking to settle in here. At the same time, I can't just hang around, mooching off of Wally and Linda." She held up a warning hand. "And don't offer to send them money; that's not my point. I need to be out there _doing_ stuff. I'm not needed here; the two Flashes have the whole Central-Keystone area sewn up and I can't keep pace with them. I love our daughter, but I need some time away from her and Jai and Iris don't mind babysitting. They've really been good with her. The fund needs me—their customer service department has a high turnover and I'm one of the few people working there who can answer something like 95 per cent of caller inquiries without having to put them on hold and look the stuff up. So, I pay the kids to babysit and pick up some of the groceries. I'm out of the house for twenty hours a week. And," she smiled, "when the time comes that it's safe to go back to Gotham, I'll be able to pull up stakes in no time."

Bruce smiled back. "Soon." It sounded uncharacteristically like a plea.

"Soon," Selina echoed.

* * *

Clara had never been in the northern part of the city before. She'd been driven _through_ it—until recently, she'd been living in Irving Grove, a suburb north of the city limits. Living with Uncle Tony meant living in south Gotham, not far from Cathedral Square. She was getting used to it—it was one of the better neighborhoods in the city proper—but once she left Uncle Tony's house, the area still didn't feel like home. The house was starting to—she'd been visiting it for as far back as she could remember. Sometimes, it was easier to pretend that she was only there for a few days, while her parents were on vacation.

Now, as she walked down a narrow street in a light drizzle, she smelled the sickly-sweet odor of rotting fruit, the earthy smell of wet cardboard boxes awaiting recycling pick-up on the sidewalk, the reek of cigarette smoke—and smoke from a different type of cigarette, one which her uncle had told her in no uncertain terms to steer clear of—to say nothing of old fish, cheap perfume, and diesel fumes, belched by a passing bus. She blinked and looked up to see several women, some in tight pants, others in short skirts. Their tops were tight and low-cut and they sported boas of fur or feathers. A couple of them were smoking. All of them wore too much makeup.

"What're you staring at, kid?" one demanded of her.

"Nothing!" she shot back, looking down quickly and hastening her pace. Raucous laughter rang out and she felt her face grow hot. She knew about women like this, of course. She'd heard the whispers, the dirty jokes, the nasty comments directed against girls in her class—girls who'd started developing early or girls who were too friendly, or girls who were too quiet. Basically, girls who didn't want to be around the people making those comments. She'd never joined in, but she'd never defended anyone either. She risked glancing back over her shoulder at the cluster of women. They weren't paying any more attention to her. From a distance, they might have been high school girls hanging out and sneaking smokes.

She kept walking.

After she'd walked what felt like about a hundred blocks west, she realized that the rundown housing had disappeared, replaced by one-story buildings that reminded her a bit of warehouses—or the trailers she'd heard about that had been converted into classrooms at some of the more overcrowded public schools. Signage on the front lawns or over the entranceways proclaimed the names of stores and brand-names, many of them familiar to her, but these buildings didn't strike her as retail stores. As she was crossing the street, she looked to her left and smiled, recognizing the domed roof of Knights Stadium. She was in the Scituate, then. She looked around, thinking. How in the world was she supposed to find the two men from Intergang?

She frowned. It was one thing to find a runaway youth trying to get accepted by one of the local street gangs by pretending to be part of Intergang, get the drop on him, and get him to talk. It was another to take on hardened killers. She took a deep breath. Bruno had been right. This wasn't a game and she was in over her head. She looked up at the dark sky. By now, someone would have noticed that she was gone. And after Batman's warning, Uncle Tony would probably have the whole Family—Family with a capital 'F' out searching for her, when they ought to be searching for Intergang. She had to go back. She closed her eyes. She couldn't go back, not like this. She had to do something to make this evening something other than a total loss.

Inspiration struck her. She knew she wasn't ready to take on Intergang by herself, but if she could find out where the killers were hiding out and tell her uncle, then he'd take care of the killers. Maybe even tonight! And she was already getting an idea of how she might find those losers…

* * *

The beefy man in the muscle tee and denims looked her up and down as she approached the bar. "No point even trying to show me ID, little girl. There's no way you're legal."

Clara hoped the bartender couldn't tell how bad she was sweating. And maybe she was only imagining that her knees were knocking together hard enough to muffle her chattering teeth. She'd been rehearsing her line in her head for the last ten blocks. _Think confident. Think cool. Think savvy._ "I know," she said. Fast. She was speaking too quickly. Her nervousness was showing. "I got a message for two guys I think might be here. I-I can wait outside."

"Got names?" the bartender demanded. "Or descriptions?"

Clara swallowed. "All I know's they're from Metropolis and they were talking with…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "with Micky Fixx." Actually, she wasn't sure about that last part, but it occurred to her that if Intergang was smart, they wouldn't try to cut a deal with the Families—not after what they'd pulled in Metropolis. And if they were smart, then they wouldn't be teaming up with the likes of Joker or Riddler, either. So, that left 'little _cugines_ , like that Fixx kid'. People who knew how things worked in the city, but didn't have what it took to make a bid for power on their own. And if they weren't smart… then she probably didn't have to worry anyway.

The bartender snorted loudly. "And you think they're here," he said.

"Uh," Clara forced herself to meet his eyes. "I thought they could be."

The bartender's expression hardened. "Look, kid, I don't know what you're playing at, but the only time we ever check ID is when we suspect someone's underage. Without checking ID, we've got no way of telling who's local and who's visiting. For all I know, everyone here tonight is visiting from Metropolis, but I'm not going to ask. And neither are you. As for that name you mentioned? I won't insult you by pretending that I've never heard it. Maybe he's been here; maybe he hasn't. I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did. But I do know that anyone involved with him? Won't be doing business in here. This isn't a place where people come to gawk at the clientele. You want that? Try the Iceberg—after you've grown up some. Now, scram."

_Look tough_ , she told herself. _Look like someone they won't want to start anything with. Look…_ Who the hell did she think she was kidding? She turned and all but ran out of the bar. As the door closed, she heard laughter and tried to tell herself it had nothing to do with her.

Out on the pavement, her shoulders slumped. This was the fifth dive she'd been inside. With some of the others, she hadn't even made it through the front door without getting turned away by a bouncer. She reached into her pocket, fingered her subway token, and let out a long sigh. This was pointless. She might as well head back.

* * *

She was on the platform, waiting for the southbound train, and idly looking at the subway map, when her gaze locked on one of the station names. The Iceberg Lounge was in the Diamond district. The Diamond district was two subway stops north of her destination. She considered. She was still considering several minutes later, when the train arrived. She wasn't sure that she was going to make one final attempt to find the gunmen tonight, until she found herself getting off the train two stops too soon.

* * *

The uniformed doorman moved to block her path as she started up the canopied walkway to the Iceberg Lounge's entrance. Clara's feet were hurting. Her light jacket, which had been fine earlier, wasn't giving her enough warmth on this spring evening. And Uncle Tony was probably going to kill her when she went back. "Please," she said quickly, horrified to feel tears welling up in her eyes, "please, I gotta talk to a guy I think is in there."

"Nobody under eighteen allowed on the premises," the doorman replied in a monotone.

"Could you take a message in for me?" she persisted.

The doorman didn't answer. He just stared down at her. Under his steely fishy eyes, Clara felt every one of the fourteen inches difference between his height and hers. She felt very young, very inexperienced, and very foolish. She took a step backwards. "Please. It's important. I gotta talk to Micky—I mean, _Mister_ Fixx. It's about…" What was it about? Had he been talking to Intergang? Was he going to be? Would he give her the time of day? "N-never mind," she whispered, turning on her heel. She didn't have a plan. She'd just wasted about three or four hours, looking for a guy, with no clue what to do if she found him. She was an idiot and Uncle Tony was going be furious, and the longer she stayed out, the worse it was going to be when she finally came home.

She looked up to see that she was facing a short line that had formed behind her while she'd been talking. Terrific. She lowered her eyes again and started walking past them, willing herself not to run.

A hand reached out and caught at her arm. "Hey, kid," a voice said, "hold it."

She looked up into the dark brown eyes of a young man in a business suit. "Let go of me," she snapped, trying to pull her arm back.

He smiled. "Forgive me, miss," he said politely, walking alongside her, "but I couldn't help overhearing that you seem to be in some sort of distress. And, if you don't mind my saying so, it's a bit late to be out by yourself. Maybe I could give you a lift to wherever it is you're going?"

Clara wasn't sure if he was following her lead, or trying to steer her. Her eyes narrowed. She was cold, she was tired, and she was nearly at the end of her rope, but that didn't mean that she was dumb enough to get into a stranger's car. "I'm fine, Mister," she said. "Thanks." She tried again to pull free.

The man sighed. "I really didn't want to do it this way," he said, pulling back his open jacket just far enough for her to see the pistol he had holstered at his waist. "It would have been better if you'd just gotten into the car, Clara. Now," his voice hardened, "if you don't come quietly, I'm going to have no choice but to contact the man I've got at your _prozio_ 's home and tell him to put a bullet in your brother's head."

Clara froze.

The man smiled. "We've been watching your _prozio_ for a little while now, trying to figure out the best way to move against him. I wasn't expecting one of you kids to go out for a stroll unescorted, but I'm sure you can appreciate that you, young lady, represent an unexpected bit of leverage that we never expected would fall into our laps. Now smile. Walk natural, and keep your mouth shut until we're in the car."

Clara closed her eyes, nodded, and tried to force herself to smile. She felt detached, as though it was someone else being taken by the arm and led along the sidewalk to a waiting black sedan with tinted windows. As though it was someone else getting into the back when a uniformed chauffeur held the door for her. As though it was someone else hearing the power locks engage, trapping her in the back seat with the gunman.

"Put your seatbelt on, Clara. I'd hate for anything to have to happen to you."

She complied numbly.

"Let's go home, Angelo," he instructed the chauffeur.

The man in the front seat nodded. "Right away, Mr. Mandragora."

As the car pulled away from the curb, Clara turned her face to the window and tried her best not to cry.


	50. 49: If You Just Give In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "Watch What Happens" written by Jack Feldman and Alan Menken. Recorded by Kara Lindsay on the Newsies original soundtrack album (Ghostlight, 2012).

_All I know is nothing happens if you just give in._   
_It can't be any worse than how it's been._   
_And it just so happens that we just might win,_   
_so whatever happens!_

— _Jack Feldman, Alan Menken, "Watch What Happens"_

# 

**Chapter 49—If You Just Give In**

"Hopefully," Dick concluded, "that'll be the end of it. If Bressi keeps her on a tighter leash for her own protection, we won't have to worry about her getting in our way," he looked down and added in an undertone, "not to mention, in the way of a random bullet."

Seated at the computer console, Bruce nodded. "Maybe not so random. Before the first mob war, the wives and children of rival Families were considered off-limits. Unfortunately, once a taboo is broken, it becomes easier to repeat the breach." His voice took on a bleak note. "When I was born, Crime Alley was known as Park Row. It was considered a safe neighborhood. Until the night that an armed robber took the lives of two parents in front of their young son."

Dick took a step toward the chair. "Bruce…"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm all right. It was just… an effective way to illustrate a point." He shook his head once more. "And one that's been preying on my mind, since it was discussed in class today."

"What!?"

Bruce nodded. "The module on Criminal Investigations. The instructor has been teaching the material for over twenty years—I checked after class. She likes to use local cases as examples and," he sighed, "apparently, it didn't occur to her to review her notes and confirm whether any of those examples might be of," he gripped the edge of the console desk with both hands, "more than academic interest to any of her students. I suppose I can understand it," he continued, his voice tightly controlled. "It _was_ something of a celebrated case. It being unsolved is a bonus—there's always a chance that someone will come up with a fresh hypothesis. In fact, that's one of my current assignments," he added. "It… won't require much new work on my part," he said, forcing a smile. "What I mean to say is… I did the assignment years ago, in far greater detail than she can possibly imagine. It's just a question of opening the file and arranging the data according to the format required by the instructor, so…"

Dick's hand was on his shoulder. "Bruce."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I didn't break down. I didn't storm out of class. I suppose, these past two years of therapy have accomplished that much. It was an afternoon class. I knew I just had to keep control until I could get back here…"

When Dick squeezed his shoulder, Bruce reached up and covered his son's hand with his own.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot turned his swivel chair around so that he faced the mahogany shelf that hung over his desk. Frowning, he reached for one of the many brass knickknacks—a miniature penguin—and weighed it experimentally in his hand before he set it on his desk and peered at it through his monocle. Clucking a bit to himself, he opened a drawer and extracted a soft polishing cloth, with which he set about removing the layer of dust and grime that had formed over the lacquered finish. So intent was he on his work that it was several long moments before he looked up to see one of his employees waiting patiently in the doorway. He set the knickknack down at once. "Yes?"

The man didn't react and for a moment, Cobblepot felt a surge of irritation. Then he remembered: Gabriel Lonan was deaf and, at this precise moment, his eyes were directed at the outside window, rather than on his employer. He resumed polishing, this time watching his employee and waiting to make eye contact. It didn't take long.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot," the guard said in a monotone. "I've been going over the security footage from yesterday and I believe there's something that might interest you."

Cobblepot replaced his monocle. "Indeed?" he asked, remembering that the more clearly he enunciated, the easier it would be for Gabriel to read his lips. "Do tell."

"It would be better to show you, sir," Gabriel replied, unconsciously touching his index finger to his nose and then pointing toward his employer. "Would you mind?"

Cobblepot frowned. He knew his employee well enough to be aware that the man rarely used sign language in his presence unless he was unusually excited or agitated. He supposed it was no different from any other person who fell back into their mother tongue in stressful situations. He smiled.

"It's certainly clear that you think this is of unusual importance," he said, setting the brass piece down and rising to his feet. "Very well, my good sir. Do lead on."

* * *

With a sigh of relief, Bruce returned the shotgun to its place in the trophy room. He was tempted to abandon the exercise, now that he could hit his targets with 90 percent accuracy. Even Farnham had dropped him a grudging compliment last week. Still, he knew he'd never maintain that accuracy if he stopped these evening drills. He sighed again. In order to wear the suit again, he needed to succeed at this. In other words, he had to pass firearms handling in order to get to a point where he'd never need to handle a firearm again. He was gaining a greater appreciation for irony all the time.

The phone was ringing as he returned from the trophy room. When he saw Brenner's name come up on the Caller ID, he nearly let it go to voicemail. He had an idea what he might be calling about and he wasn't in the mood. Then he reminded himself that as squad leader, it was his duty to provide assistance where warranted. Steeling himself, he picked up the phone. "Bruce Wayne."

"It's Cadet Brenner, sir," the voice on the other end said respectfully. "I… was wondering about the criminal investigation assignment."

He was glad he'd steeled himself. "Yes," he said, trying not to let his irritation show. It was only sensible that Brenner would want to ask his questions of someone who was indisputably more in the know on the subject than any of their classmates.

There was a moment's pause. "Sir… Sergeant Englehart said that we could work on it in teams if we wanted to. I was wondering if you did."

Bruce blinked. "Pardon?"

"I thought maybe we could pair up for that one and I know we'll have another two-person team assignment in Evidence Collection next week. I figure… I've got a little more time this week and it's no big deal for me if I do most of the work on this one if you'll do the same for EC. I mean, seriously, you shouldn't have to do this material; it must be kid stuff to you, right?" Then in a more chastened tone, Brenner added, "Sorry. I didn't mean…"

Bruce closed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly. "Stand by," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I'm emailing you a file. It's… everything I've gathered over the years. Perhaps, you could rework it so it's organized according to course specs."

"I'll get right on it, Squad Leader," Brenner replied with a smile in his voice.

Bruce hesitated. "Brenner… Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to sorting through it."

"I didn't think you were, Squad Leader. I'll call back if I hit any snags."

Bruce thanked him again and ended the call. When he replaced the phone in its cradle, he felt as though he'd shed a far greater weight than that of the device he'd been holding.

* * *

Penguin scanned the footage and sniffed loudly before turning to his employee. "I recognize Benny Mandragora. He looks a bit like his father did at that age. Who is the girl?"

"I didn't know at first," Gabriel admitted, "but I thought I'd seen her before, so I checked it out." He pressed a button on his smartphone and passed it over. "This article ran two days after the Metropolis Massacre. Compare the photo of the girl to the footage…"

Penguin caught his breath. "Clara Bressi?" He shook his head nervously. "What is Benny playing at? This could wreck everything! Wak! If he means to use her against Tony…"

"Mr. Cobblepot," Gabriel said, "please, look at me, sir. I can't see what you're saying."

Penguin collected himself through sheer force of will. "Thank you, Gabriel, for bringing this to my attention. You've done well. That will be all, for now."

Gabriel frowned, but he knew a dismissal when he saw one. He got up at once and the two walked out of the monitor room together before parting ways.

As he walked back to his office, Penguin was already weighing his options, trying to determine whether this was intel to pass on to Oracle, whether it would be wiser to tell Bressi of his niece's whereabouts, or whether to contact Mandragora—and threaten to tell Bressi. So many possibilities, so many ways for the dice to fall. He could afford to wait a little before making his cast. The city was in flux at the moment and it behooved him to wait a bit before deciding which horse to back. He had time. And useful information. Which put him in quite the interesting position… for now.

* * *

As cages went, Clara had to admit that this one wasn't particularly uncomfortable. It was just… _pink_. Pink shag carpet, pastel pink silk comforter and curtains on the canopy bed, lacquered pink furniture, pink draperies, pink lampshades, pink-on-pink patterned wallpaper… She felt like she was drowning in Pepto-Bismol. In her muddy shoes, black skinny jeans, and blue button-down top, she looked completely out of place—and putting her bomber jacket back on wouldn't improve matters. Considering her circumstances, that was probably a good thing. She pulled aside the pink draperies, tugged at the cord on the pink window blind to raise it, and looked out. At least the Georgian bars that made geometric diamonds of the window panes were silver-gray. She examined them hopefully, but they appeared sturdy and unlikely to loosen.

She sank into the frothy pink beanbag chair, rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and thought. Not for the first time, she wished she'd taken her knapsack with her when she'd left Uncle Tony's. Her tools and weapons were in it. Not to mention a couple of word puzzle magazines. The regular occupant of this room seemed to be more into Dora the Explorer and Barbie. She opened the desk drawer and found a small box of labels with a pink-and-purple (so she did know about other colors) border and the words 'Property of Sabrina Mandragora' in gold cursive script. She dug her hands into her jacket pockets and pulled out the contents: her school ID, a couple of pieces of fruit taffy, an emergency subway token she hadn't realized she'd had on her, and a couple of tissues. Useless. She tried the door again, not really expecting it to open. She knocked, but nobody appeared to be nearby. She sank to her knees and squinted through the keyhole, trying to see whether she could make anything out, but saw nothing but blackness. Her eyes grew wide. It could be that the hallway was dark, or that there was something shielding the lock, but it could also be that her captors had left the key in the door. And if they had…

Clara opened another one of the pink desk drawers and wasn't really surprised to find a pastel-pink writing pad adorned with sparkly winged unicorns. It didn't matter what it looked like; it just might be her ticket out of here! She went to the dresser and smiled. The comb or, more specifically, its long narrow handle was most welcome.

Returning to the door, Clara knocked once more. "Hey!" she called. "I gotta use the bathroom!" She didn't. And in fact, she'd already discovered that the only other door in the room led, not to a closet, but to a private full bathroom. No, what she really wanted to know was whether anybody was close enough to see or hear her.

When five minutes of repeated banging brought neither voices nor footsteps, she slid the writing pad partway under the door. Then she poked the handle of the comb through the keyhole and was rewarded by a soft clunk, as the key fell onto the pad. Carefully, she pulled the pad back and almost cheered aloud when she saw the key reposing on the top page. She'd done it!

She put the key in the lock and turned it. When the door opened, she made her way stealthily down the hall.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot sat at his desk and weighed his options. He had to decide what was most important to him in the current climate: neutrality… or profit. He knew Clara Bressi's whereabouts, a salient piece of intel that offered him a virtual banquet of opportunity.

If he approached Tony Bressi, he knew full well that he could never offer to _sell_ him the information. Bressi would either extract the price from Cobblepot's own hide, or he would pay, yes he would pay… but he would also ensure that he never did business again with any of Cobblepot's interests. Bressi controlled the unions. Many of the exotic items on the Iceberg's menus were freighted to the restaurant on trucks driven by union workers. No matter how much he tried to discourage brawling on the premises, sooner or later, some idiot tourist would attempt to take a selfie with one of his regular patrons. That… never ended well. Thankfully, the Bat contingent hadn't defenestrated anybody recently nor damaged any walls, but they had in the past. Should repairs be needed, they would almost have to be done by union workers. He took pains to keep his cooks and wait-staff happy enough with their salaries and benefits that they felt no need to form or join a union of their own, but one day, they might demand more than he was willing to grant and then, in all likelihood, he'd have another solidarity group on his hands. No, he couldn't afford to be on Tony Bressi's blacklist. He could just _give_ him the information. In retail, doing so would be termed a 'loss leader'—selling a small item for less than its value in the hopes that the customer would come into the establishment to purchase it and, while there, pick up other items which were _not_ being sold below cost. Telling Bressi his niece's whereabouts would tell the mob boss that Cobblepot was well-disposed toward him, which would certainly lead to certain favors and benefits coming his way. Bressi's star was currently on the rise. It was a sound move…

…But the situation was too volatile, which was why Cobblepot had resolved to stay neutral in the first place. Were he to be recognized as one of Bressi's supporters, he would lose the custom of the Mandragoras, the Inzerillos, and their supporters. He didn't precisely _need_ their money, but he did need them to keep supplying him with intel. Besides, were they to consider him among those ranged against them, they might retaliate. The Mandragoras had a lock on most of the alcohol sales. He couldn't afford to tick them off.

He could approach the Mandragoras and offer to sell them his silence. They might pay him handsomely not to tell Bressi what he knew. Whatever plans they had for young Clara would require time to set up. Even if they only meant to have Bressi sweat for a while before they delivered an ultimatum…

…And the situation was still volatile, and his neutrality would still be compromised.

He could shop his information around to the highest bidder, taking care to exclude both the Bressis and the Mandragoras from his list of potential buyers. Someone would either take matters into their own hands, or spread the word. His neutrality would be assured. But if Bressi or Mandragora were to find out… It might just end their petty war and lead them to unite against a common foe, as Batman had hoped. Only they would unite against _him_ , rather than Intergang. Unacceptable.

He _should_ tell the Bats. They'd probably leave him alone for weeks. They'd almost certainly rescue the girl. The civil war in the streets that nobody wanted would be averted. If anyone challenged him, he could simply point out that it was hard to turn a profit when his patrons were too busy killing each other to stop in for a drink.

The Bats wouldn't pay him for his intel and he might still lose profits in the short-term, when his more short-sighted regulars branded the Penguin a stool pigeon.

He shook his head slowly. He wasn't about to go to the Bats. Not when he'd so recently sent their Oracle such a juicy bit of information. No, for now, he'd simply sit on the intel, gambling that it would appreciate in value rather quickly.

It was the wisest move, but even so, he felt a rare prickle of conscience. Or, perhaps, it was mere self-doubt. It was only a prickle, barely even a twinge, but for the briefest instant, he found himself wishing that Batman would burst into his office to intimidate him, just so he could pass on the information without worrying about his reputation.

He waited for a few minutes, but when no Bat appeared, Cobblepot gave a mental shrug, waddled over to the minibar, and fixed himself a vodka and tonic.

* * *

Clara was almost to the top of the staircase when she stopped. If she left, she thought, what would that mean for her brother? On the one hand, Benny Mandragora might well have been bluffing. She knew what kind of security there was on the estate. It wasn't easy to get a spy onto the grounds.

She'd managed to sneak off, of course, but it was easier to break out than to break in. If Mandragora had somehow managed to get someone into Uncle Tony's house, then once he told the guy to… she swallowed hard. Then she gave herself a mental slap and forced herself to think about why she'd gotten into the car in the first place. Once Mandragora told his man to kill her brother, the guy would be lucky to escape with his life. And Mandragora would have a hard time placing a new spy on the grounds. Forget that. He'd have a hard time living out the week. Unless…

Her heart was pounding a crazy drum solo and she hugged herself and tried to relax. Suppose that it wasn't one of Mandragora's people? What if it was someone from one of the smaller Families, or someone like the guy she'd roughed up her first night out—someone who was trying to get into the Families and wanted a chance to prove himself? If he did it… if he pulled the trigger, assuming he didn't escape, her uncle's people might just shoot the guy without finding out who he worked for. And even if they caught the guy…

Clara let out a long breath. She couldn't do it. She couldn't take the chance that Mandragora wasn't bluffing. She had to stay. Slowly, she made her way back to the Pepto-Bismol room. Instead of replacing the key where she'd found it, though, she locked the room from the inside and slid the key into the desk drawer under a box of crayons. Maybe she couldn't leave the grounds, but there was no way that she was going to stay cooped up in all of this _pink_ if she could help it.

* * *

"You what?" Steven Mandragora regarded his youngest son with a mix of shock and rage.

"I have Bressi's grand-niece, nice and safe," Benny repeated. "And at the right time, I can let Bressi know."

For an instant, the elder Mandragora sat frozen. Then, without warning, he slapped his son across the face. "You idiot!" he hissed. "You've just signed all of our death warrants!"

"B-but we can use her to keep Bressi out of our hair," Benny protested, his hand flying to his rapidly reddening cheek.

"Really?" Don Mandragora demanded. "Because you just crossed a line and once Tony Bressi finds out what you did, he's going to play by the new rules. How's the security at Saint Monica's, Benny? You gonna bet your daughter's life it'll be good enough?" A vein bulged in his forehead as his voice rose in volume.

"I'm gonna call your brothers and warn them about what's in the wind. Thanks to you."

Benny swallowed. "I can… return her," he said faintly.

"She knows who you are?" his father asked. "She saw your face?"

The younger man nodded.

"Then it's too late for that." The older man's voice was bleak. "We gotta make sure that girl can't tell her _prozio_ what you did. And we gotta make sure her body's never found. Or if it is, that it can't lead back to us." He waved his son away violently. "Go! Get outta here."

"Do you want me to—?"

"Don't you dare lay a hand on her, not yet," Don Mandragora ordered. "Not until I've taken care of the arrangements. We can't be connected to her. We can't have anything of hers left behind in your house once she's been taken care of. And, just in case she does turn up, we can't be spotted anywhere near her…" he paused for a moment, "…final resting place. I'll take care of what needs to be done," he said heavily. "For now, just… keep her out of sight."

"Should I take Sabrina out of Saint Monica's?"

Mandragora laughed bitterly. "Because that won't look a bit suspicious. No, keep her where she is. I'll get some of our people on the grounds to keep an eye on things. They won't notice a new cook or gardener. And Benny?" His expression hardened. "You better hope we can fix this. Because I'm telling you now that if I lose any of my grandchildren, grand-nieces, or grand-nephews because of this little stunt… From that day forward, I will consider myself as if I have only two sons. I won't kill you," he added. "But I'll cut you off and I'll let it be known that I have. How many friends do you have in this city? How many will you have if you no longer have the connections you currently enjoy?"

Benny's face, already white, took on a faint greenish tinge.

"Oh and Benny," Mandragora added, "the girl can't help being born a Bressi. Don't go taking anything out on her. You treat her like a little princess until it's time to do what's got to be done. I don't want the coroner to find a single unnecessary mark on her. Capisci?"

Benny nodded.

* * *

Any worries that Mandragora's goons would suspect her of doing anything more than sitting patiently in her frothy pink prison evaporated when one of her captors showed up the next morning with breakfast. She could smell the bacon and eggs and, despite herself, her mouth was watering. She heard something being set down with a slight clatter and guessed that the tray was now on the spindly-legged console table she'd seen just outside the door of her prison. Then she heard a man's voice muttering, "Oh, hell. Where did I put that damn key?" She heard clinking sounds; the guy was probably going through his pockets. Then his footsteps retreated down the hall, but the breakfast smells remained, wafting under the door.

It had taken no small amount of willpower for Clara not to unlock the door and take the tray. She was hungry.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a man in his late thirties entered, holding the tray. "Breakfast," he announced, giving her a friendly smile.

Clara glowered. "How long are you planning to keep me here?" she demanded.

The man shrugged as he placed the tray on the dresser. "That's up to Mr. Mandragora. Do you want anything?" he asked. "Deck of cards, Cosmo… I could loan you an iPod; just tell me what kind of music you like."

She raised her eyebrows. Then she forced her lips to curve upwards in a winning smile. "Music would be good, but I like to browse. Maybe you could lend me a tablet and I'll download it myself."

The guard might be absent-minded enough to forget where he'd left a key, but he wasn't stupid. "Sorry. Can't give you internet access. At least, not without supervision. I'll tell you what, though. If you really want to browse, I can come back a bit later and we can check out the selections together. Sound good?"

No. But she forced herself to keep smiling. "Sure." She still didn't know what Mandragora wanted with her, how she fit into his plans, or what it would take for her to get out of here. But she thought that if she could get some of his people to relax around her, she might stand a chance at finding out. And if she got them actually liking her… well, that couldn't hurt either.

She poured ketchup onto her eggs and lifted a forkful to her mouth.

* * *

When the signal went up the following evening, Batman was more than a little irritated to find a youth clad in jeans and a bomber jacket standing on the rooftop of GCPD headquarters. "What's going on?" he demanded. "This signal is for police use only."

The teen swallowed hard, but met Batman's angry glower with a direct gaze. "I'm sorry, Batman. My father didn't have any other way to contact you. I'm Joe Bressi. You rescued my sister and me from Bane a number of years ago."

It hadn't been him. It had been Jean-Paul, but Dick wasn't about to tell him that. "You're Tony Bressi's son?"

"That's right. We need your help. Family issue. Not… Family business," he added quickly. "Family… family. My cousin's disappeared. At first, we thought she was just hiding in the house; Clara does that when she wants to be alone and she's wanted to be alone a lot since she came to live with us. But no one's seen her since last night after supper, her bed wasn't slept in and she wasn't in school today. I've lived on the estate my whole life, Batman. Between Maria and me—my sister, I mean—I think we know every hiding place there is on those grounds. We've checked them all. I… know you don't like us much. Maybe I even get why. Clara's just twelve, though, and she used to live up north in the suburbs. She doesn't know how bad this city can get. Please. Will you come back with me to the house?"

Batman hesitated. "Why did Bressi send you? Why didn't he come himself?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't want to meet on top of a building crawling with cops when he doesn't own them all. Maybe he knew you'd be angry when you realized it was one of us turned on the signal and he figured you wouldn't punch a kid. I dunno. He told me to talk to you, I didn't argue. So. You gonna help us?"

Beneath the thin veneer of bravado, the teen was clearly worried. If Clara had managed to get off of the grounds despite her uncle's precautions, he had good reason to be. Batman tilted his head, considering. "You okay with heights?" he asked finally.

Joe blinked. "Sure. I guess… Wait," his eyes grew wide. "You mean…?"

Batman flung an arm around the kid's waist and readied his grappling hook. "I mean, hold on tight. This could get a little windy."

* * *

"I'll rattle my contacts," Huntress said slowly. "See what falls out."

Batman frowned. "What aren't you telling me?"

Huntress shook her head. "Hopefully? The kid ran away. It happens. Children rebel, or they're desperate for attention, or they're sure there's a better life waiting around the bend. If she's gone of her own free will, it's not _good_ , but it's not as bad as it could be."

"Cass said one of her great uncle's bodyguards has been training her in hand-to-hand combat and she's been sneaking off at night to try to find the Metropolis massacre-ers." Batman made a face. "That's not a word, is it?"

Huntress didn't smile. "Great. You know that if she finds them, there is no scenario where things turn out well. Either they kill her, or she runs, or she loses her nerve… and if, by some miracle, she beats them? With everything Intergang is putting into their takeover bid, they're going to have to make an example out of her. And if Bressi finds out…"

"Mob War Two," Dick nodded.

Huntress sighed. "Before the first mob war, wives and kids were considered off-limits. Especially girls; boys sometimes got involved in Family business early. Darla Aquista's death changed all that. Even so, I can't think of a single head who'd want to move against Bressi through those kids. There's still a code. And there's a difference between not being careful about who's in the crossfire versus cold-blooded murder. It may be the Montagues and the Capulets," she continued, "not to mention about eight other noble households… in fair Gotham, where we lay our scene," she added in an undertone, "but there are certain… standards. When Romeo crashed the party, Lord Capulet didn't have him tossed out on his ear or challenge him to a duel. If Falcone or Thorne recognized Clara walking alone, one of the first things they'd do would be to get her off the street and the next thing they'd do would be to call Bressi, tell him she was safe, and make arrangements to return her safely."

"You said heads," Dick pointed out. "What about the others?"

Huntress let out a long breath. "It depends. And we're forgetting that there are plenty of people out there who aren't connected to the Families, who might have taken her." Her expression darkened. "You know as well as I do that there are some sick puppies out there with an interest in very _young_ girls. And with Catwoman out of town, some of the pimps who used to supply them are coming out of the woodwork. A kid walking alone after dark… if nobody recognized her, she'd be fair game."

Batman nodded. "I know most of those players. I'll be… visiting them shortly. I've sent her photo to Oracle; she's cross-referencing. If a security camera picked her up; hell, if someone uploaded a video to MeTube and she was passing by in the background, we'll be a little closer to finding her. Meanwhile…"

"Meanwhile," Huntress said grimly, "I'll keep tabs on the Families. And, as much as I want to find the girl, seeing as you want me to stick to your no-kill policy? You'd better hope it's not one of them, because if it is, all bets are off."

* * *

"You heard me," Enrico Inzerillo snapped. "How can I get a man or several onto the Police Academy grounds?"

Sergeant Michael Forrester was grateful that he was off-duty and out of uniform. The dimly-lit pub in which he and Inzerillo were seated generally attracted the better sort of customer, and thus was unlikely to be the site of a police stakeout. Still, it was certainly possible that a fellow officer was here for the food or the blues trio that had just finished a set and was taking a breather. Forrester cast a furtive glance around the dining area and relaxed when he failed to spot a familiar face. He might be able to explain being spotted talking with the mob boss, but not if anyone was close enough to overhear the conversation. "It won't be easy," he said. "Security's tight there. And even if you can get past the checkpoints, virtually every instructor there is a cop. At this point in the training program, most of the cadets should be fairly decent with guns, too. And they'll all know hand-to-hand combat."

"Surely there are weak points," Inzerillo pressed.

Forrester snorted. "You'd have better luck trying to fire a proton torpedo down a two-meter wide thermal exhaust port. It would have been hard enough a couple of months ago, but since they caught an assassin on the grounds, they've stepped up security even more."

"But someone broke in?" Inzerillo demanded. "So, it's possible?"

"The Mad Hatter mind-controlled an ex-marine who'd been enrolled at the academy and withdrew. The guy made it inside and was apprehended inside of twenty minutes. That, despite his special skills and training. You got a man like that? Or a woman?"

Inzerillo frowned. "You're sure there's no other way? You aren't holding out on me? Because if you can't be of any use to me, I wouldn't have a real reason to keep protecting you. From the consequences of your actions, that is." He smiled unpleasantly. "I mean, the Falcones are still looking to find out who it was ran over their man Vito, 'round about six months ago. These days, I've had some reverses. I'm drinking more. And I get pretty damned talkative after a couple of shots, you know?"

The beer sloshed in Forrester's stein, when he set it down on the table a bit harder than he should have. A splash of golden-brown liquid spilled out onto the dark wooden surface. He mopped it up with a napkin before it could drip off of the edge and onto his lap, then lifted the stein and took a gulp. "Give me a day or two," he said dully. "I'll try to come up with something."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Clara slipped out of the room, when the house was still. She spent an hour exploring the second floor, where her prison was located. There were four other bedrooms—including the master one, two more bathrooms, and a brightly-lit office with a writing desk of some light-colored wood, a carpet that reminded her of milky tea, and a chair with floral upholstery that matched the draperies. More to the point, there was a cordless phone on the desk. Clara reached for it, but then stopped. She could hear voices coming from downstairs. If someone overheard her, if anybody picked up an extension downstairs and heard her making her call, then Luka was as good as dead.

She smiled. She knew where the phone was now. She could wait until tonight, when everyone was asleep, to make her call. Meanwhile, it was best for her to return to the pink room—and fight the urge to walk all over that pristine comforter with her shoes on.

She was listening to the MP3 player two hours later, when the key turned in the lock and she found two hard, burly men standing in the doorway. One of them motioned to her to come with them.

Ten minutes after that, she was squashed in the back of a black sedan, sitting between the two goons, as the car sped out of the Mandragora estate gates, headed for the Aparo.

* * *

In the Iceberg Lounge, Derek Powers examined the photograph for a moment, before handing it back to Fixx. "I don't want anything to do with kids," he said shortly. "I have enough on my plate with my own boy. What do I want with her?"

Fixx smiled. "For herself? Nothing. However, as a bargaining chip…" he chuckled softly. "The other night, one of my acquaintances told me that she was looking for me. Why, I have no idea. But I admit that my curiosity led me to ask a few questions, make a few inquiries, and pay a few people in the know." He smiled in satisfaction. "The girl is Tony Bressi's grand-niece. She's currently in the wind. I don't think I need to tell you how many people in this city would like to get their hands on her. If we were to manage it… well, I can think of a few advantages to having one of the most influential crime bosses currently active owing us a favor. Can't you?"

Powers could. He shot Fixx a malevolent smile of his own. "Where would you suggest we start looking?"

"Looking?" Fixx echoed. "Listening. Here. To people who may not be able to keep things to themselves when they've had a couple of drinks too many. Especially the less… colorful clientele. The costumed customers of this fine establishment and the mob seldom mix. When they do, they don't often fight. With a few notable exceptions, such as the proprietor of this excellent restaurant, they tend to steer clear of each other. When they don't? Well, that's when things get messy. Things are too tense right now for us to risk them getting messy." He paused. "Of course, a man in your position may have access to resources that others do not. You're something of an investigator yourself, Mr. Powers, are you not?"

Derek nodded slowly.

"And I'm sure that Batman's old company must have some discarded prototypes or gadgets or what have you that might help you locate a missing twelve-year-old."

"And we know she's looking for you," Derek added, with a speculative gleam in his eye.

Fixx's smile broadened.

* * *

One of the goons sitting beside her smelled of garlic and pepperoni. The other one was drenched in Axe. There was a foam air freshener cut out in the shape of an evergreen tree dangling from the rearview mirror emitting a strong pine fragrance. Clara felt her stomach turn over, whether from the combination of odors or from her nervousness, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that she had to get out of the car before she puked.

"Uh…" Her throat was dry and she wasn't sure if they were paying attention. "Um… have you got any Dramamine? Cuz I think I'm gonna throw up."

One of her seatmates glanced at her. "Joe," he called to the driver, "crack a window. Kid's turning green."

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror and uttered a word Clara's great uncle didn't use in her presence. "There's a truck stop coming up in about five miles," he snapped. "Can you hold on until then?"

Clara closed her eyes. "I dunno."

Joe pulled over to the shoulder of the road. "You gotta be sick, be sick out here," he said, unlocking the doors. "Not in the Mercedes." Garlic-and-Pepperoni Guy got out first and held the door for her. Clara gulped in fresh air and tried not to shiver in the chill of a mid-spring evening. She thought about running, but two things stopped her: the wire fence that separated the highway from the local farmland, and the realization that she probably couldn't move fast enough to get away from her captors. A few minutes later, feeling a bit steadier, she sighed and headed back to the car.

"Can I sit by the window?" she asked hopefully. "Please?"

Axe Guy shook his head. "Sorry, kid. You're the only one short enough not to block the rear view."

"Just hang on for a couple of minutes, kid," Joe said. "When we get to the truck stop, we can grab you some of that Dramamine and maybe a pack of mints. Just… please, don't be sick in the car. I don't want to have to clean it."

Clara nodded. "I gotta use the bathroom, too," she muttered. "When we get there."

"Yeah," Joe replied. "We got a couple hours' drive ahead of us, so that's not a bad idea. Sit tight, kid. We'll be there before you know it."

* * *

The gas station was connected to a small food court, with a long corridor leading to the bathrooms. Axe-Guy escorted her to the entrance of the ladies room. Clara locked herself into a stall and wondered how long she could stay here before Mandragora's goons got tired of waiting. She considered finding out. This was a busy area and other women were coming in and out—not exactly a place where men could enter inconspicuously. On the other hand, she couldn't stay here forever. And sooner or later, there would be a lull in traffic, or they'd ask some woman—a food court employee or traveler—to check up on her, saying that she'd been in there for too long.

With a mental sigh, Clara unlocked the stall and went to the row of sinks. She looked around. One of the other women standing close by gave her an evil look. Clara wondered what her problem was. Then she realized that she hadn't flushed the toilet. She hadn't used it either, but after having been in there for so long, the woman must be thinking… Clara fought the urge to giggle and looked away quickly.

And then, she smiled. There was another way out of here, an emergency door—and she was staring right at it. She just needed to wait until the room was empty before she used it. She looked around again. Some of the stall doors were closed, but it was just her and Pucker-Face in the communal area. Clara ran the water and made a great show of slowly washing her hands. A toilet flushed and another woman came over, washed, and left. Clara just squeezed more liquid soap into her palm and diligently lathered up again. Finally the evil-faced woman left and Clara took off her jacket and ran for the emergency door.

An alarm bell sounded, as she emerged into the twilight, but she didn't stop. The Mercedes was parked around the corner; even if Axe-Guy figured out what she was up to, she still had a couple of minutes before he could get back in the car and get Joe to drive after her. And if he took off after her on foot instead, she hoped he had his running shoes on.

She sprinted for the trees. When she came to the four-foot high wire fence, she was ready for it. Gripping her jacket by the inner lining with both hands, she pressed the bomber jacket leather-side-down onto the thin metal wire, bracing herself as she scrambled over. She landed on an exposed tree root and pitched forward, falling on her knees and elbows in a muddy ditch. Remembering something Bruno had told her about camouflage, she scooped up a few fingers' worth of the mud and rubbed it liberally onto her face. Once night fell, it would make her that much harder to spot if they went searching with flashlights. Come to think of it, if she kept her face down, lying in this ditch might not be the worst way to wait out her pursuers. If she ran, they'd see her. If she cast about looking for a different place to hide, if the ditch was muddy, the ground might be too. And she did _not_ want to risk leaving footprints. She listened carefully for footsteps or conversation. Hearing none, she guessed that they hadn't thought to look for her here yet. She moved her hands, feeling out her surroundings and smiled. Dead leaves, branches, twigs… she could use this. She rolled against the side of the ditch closest to the rest area, the side that would be harder for anybody to see if they were on the other side of the fence looking down. She did her best to bury herself in leaves from the neck down. They stank now, but it wouldn't take her long to get used to them. Then she draped her jacket over her head. She knew it probably wasn't perfect, but it might be good enough to hide her now that night was coming on. In a couple of hours, she could start moving again.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot had finally made up his mind. When the chips were down, Bressi was a far stronger ally than Mandragora ever would be, and given Bressi's alliance with the Bats, Cobblepot had no doubt that his intel would reach their (pointed) ears, as well. And it would do so without his needing to worry about what might happen, should any of the Iceberg's patrons learn that he was voluntarily passing information through _that_ channel. Penguins were quite robust birds. Stool pigeons, on the other hand, had considerably shorter life expectancies.

He picked up the telephone from his desk. Then he frowned, remembering how Batman had bugged his office in the past. He walked into the hallway and gestured toward one of his guards. "Give me your phone, Gentoo," he ordered. When the henchman complied, Cobblepot carried it down the hall to the storage room. Once inside, he dialed a number.

"Forgive my presumption in calling your direct line, Don Bressi," he said smoothly. "This is Oswald Cobblepot. And I believe that I have some information that might be of interest to you…"


	51. 50: Seeds of a War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Naughty" written by Tim Minchin and performed by Sophia Gennusa on the Matilda the Musical Original Broadway Cast Album (Broadway/Yellow Sound, 2013); "Woke Up This Morning" written by Jake Black and Rob Spragg. Recorded by Alabama 3 on their Exile on Coldharbour Lane album (One Little Indian, 1997).

_In the slip of a bolt, there's a tiny revolt._  
_The seeds of a war in the creak of a floorboard._  
_A storm can begin, with the flap of a wing._  
_The tiniest mite packs the mightiest sting!_

— _Tim Minchin, "Naughty"_

#  **

Chapter 50—Seeds of a War

**

Tough Tony Bressi had not survived the last mob war by flying off the handle at the drop of a hat. In his day, he had faced down rival crimelords, police, and vigilante law enforcers. While his hands were far from clean, he at least tried to avoid gratuitous deaths. Removing a rival before they could remove him was pure self defense. Arranging the disappearance of someone who double-crossed him was a useful deterrent for others with the same idea. But such decisions were generally reached after careful consideration and a cool appraisal of the consequences of his proposed actions.

Right now, he was wishing for the Atom's ability to travel through the phone lines, so that he could reach out and throttle someone. "You're saying," he almost snarled, "that the Mandragoras have my niece."

"I'm saying," Penguin clarified, "that my security footage shows your niece being denied access to my establishment and subsequently leaving in the company of Benito Mandragora. That is the only thing I saw. I'd assumed that he was returning the girl to you. It wasn't until earlier this evening that I was notified that she was missing—and then, naturally, I felt that I should contact you with my information."

Bressi's hand tightened on the phone. "So, you've decided," he snapped.

"I beg your pardon?"

Bressi sighed in exasperation. "You never give away anything, Penguin. The fact that you are tells me, more than anything, that the rival Families are in disarray. What is it you want?"

"I?" Penguin asked innocently. "I want to see a family reunited."

"Of course," Bressi drawled. "But what do you want in exchange for your keeping quiet about what you've just told me? I'd really hate to think that Benny Mandragora got wind that people were looking for him and decided to lie low for a while."

"Surely, you don't think that I would discuss such sensitive matters with—"

"No," Bressi cut him off. "You wouldn't. Not to another soul. Because if Benny goes underground, I'll have to send my people out to look for him. And naturally, they're going to want to talk to the person who saw him last. Repeatedly. At great length. Probably during your establishment's business hours." He let that sink in. "A lot of your regulars are probably going to speculate on why Tony Bressi's boys are spending so much time shooting the breeze with you in your back office." He smiled and his tone warmed. "But if you'll accept a small token of my thanks and continue to earn my goodwill with your silence, I don't see why anything… unpleasant should have to happen. So. How much is my privacy worth to you?"

Penguin named a figure, all traces of sycophancy wiped clean from his voice.

Bressi accepted it without hesitation. "You'll have it within the hour."

"And," Penguin added, a note of servility creeping back into his tone, "I can rely on _your_ discretion, as well?"

"This phone call never happened."

* * *

The voices no longer sounded in the darkness. The footsteps had moved on. Clara still lay in the ditch under her leafy camouflage and tried not to tremble. It wasn't just fear. The leaves were wet, the night was chilly, and she hadn't had time to put her jacket on after she'd used it to protect her hands when she'd scaled the low barbed wire fence that separated the highway from the farmlands and uncleared trees. She was lying on top of it now, her arms partly thrust through the sleeves so that she was almost wearing it backwards. She was glad that her cotton button-down was dark blue; a white shirt might be seen in the headlights of a passing car. Maybe even by moonlight; the crescent overhead wasn't giving off a lot of light, but there was some.

She wished she had her cell phone.

A shrill croaking sound startled her. It was quickly answered by another croak and another. Almost immediately, a whole chorus started up. Clara was a city girl. Even life in the suburbs had been far more urban than rural. But even though she couldn't be positive, she guessed that she was hearing frogs. The sound was not unpleasant. It almost seemed to be a song, though not one that a bird might sing. She shook herself. She needed to get moving. At any time, those Mandragora goons might return and they might bring reinforcements. She had to get out of here.

She wondered about Luka. What if Mandragora had been telling the truth about having a guy at her uncle's? What if he'd already given the order to kill her brother when she'd run off?

"Luka…" she whispered.

The frogs stopped singing.

Clara closed her eyes and hugged herself. If Mandragora had given that order, there was nothing she could do about it now. But if he hadn't… Oh, she had to get help, find a phone, call home and tell them what was going on. Didn't the bad guys always want to have the hero standing in the background to witness it when they did something evil? Grand Moff Tarkin could have destroyed Alderaan when Leia was locked up in the brig, but he'd wanted her to watch her home planet get destroyed. Syndrome had forced Mr. Incredible to listen to the radio transmission of his wife and kids being targeted by missiles. Nero had made Spock see Vulcan get blown to smithereens. Maybe Mandragora wasn't going to give the 'kill' order unless his goons recaptured her and brought her back, so she could be in the room when he made the call.

She had to find a phone.

She waited until she heard the frog chorus start up again before she slowly got up, put her jacket on the right way, and got ready to move on. She resolved to head away from the frogs. If she was remembering right, they liked swamps. And if she was cold now, taking a wrong step and landing in stinky mucky water was going to make things worse.

She scanned her surroundings as best she could, searching for some lights that weren't coming from the truck stop behind her. She wasn't about to go anywhere near the highway. It would be the first place Mandragora's creeps would look.

In the distance, she thought she could make out a house, or maybe a barn, but it was dark. She zipped up her jacket and started walking.

* * *

Batman and Huntress walked out the front door of the Bressi mansion and went immediately to the side of the circular drive, where a motorcycle with a bat-insignia awaited.

"You know," Huntress said, "tonight, I could almost believe you're the original Bat." He'd been reaching for his helmet, but he stopped to look at her. "Your face looks like grim death," she said.

Dick sighed. "I should be more upbeat, I guess," he admitted. "We've finally got a lead on the girl. She's in real danger and we can get her out of it. Tony's been playing by our rules for weeks, and all of his people have been exercising more restraint than I would have believed before Metropolis."

"But…"

He put on the helmet and handed a second one to Helena. "I ever thank you for getting me out of trouble with Tevis?"

"On three separate occasions. Going for a fourth?"

He sighed again. "Just checking. Because, as much as I _know_ that we're doing the right thing, there's a part of me that just registers that we're following a mobster's orders to take down a rival family and," he swung onto the 'cycle, "the last time that happened… physically, mentally, emotionally… I was _not_ in a good place. I guess I'm feeling the sting of a few old memories."

Instead of jumping onto the seat behind him, Huntress placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. "It's not the same thing," she reassured him. "I mean, I know you probably know that, but seriously? It's not. Right now, Tony's not being a crime boss. He's being a father. His daughter's gone missing, probably kidnapped, and he's asking for our help to get her back. We both know how I feel about the Families," she added, "and even _I've_ got no problem with what he wants."

She mounted the cycle and wrapped her arms about his waist. "And hey," she added, "you got past most of that dark crap. The little bit you're still stuck with? When it tries to hold you back, just focus on the kid. Because we both know that if the Joker randomly developed a conscience for a second and screamed at you to save a child, you'd be jumping before he finished his sentence. Granted, you'd probably assume he was pointing you toward a mannequin stuffed with Smilex," she admitted, "but I think you'd still take a chance on his steering you in the right direction. Well," she wriggled a bit on the seat, settling into her position, "I'm pretty confident Bressi's not sending us into a trap. At least, not deliberately."

Dick nodded. "Doesn't mean the Mandragoras haven't got something planned, though."

"Right. So, you think you can stop dwelling on the past, long enough to focus on the current scenario?"

Batman glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Guess I'd better. Clara's counting on us. Even if she doesn't know it yet."

Huntress smiled back. "Now, _that_ sounds more like the Batman 2.0 I've gotten used to working with."

"Up for a game of 'Good Vigilante, Bad Vigilante'?"

She laughed then. "Who says one of us has to be the good one?"

* * *

The office was located on the second floor of a historic red-brick building in Tricorner. At one time, when the Old Naval Shipyards had been in operation, the building had been the residence of the shipyard commander. Since that time, the it had become home to three charitable foundations, five not-for-profits, and Stefano Mandragora's import/export office.

Stefano was at his desk, reviewing his ledgers, when he realized that all sounds from the outer office had ceased.

"Working late?" a woman's cold voice demanded.

The mobster's head jerked up and his eyes widened in fear. "You!" he gasped, scraping his chair back as he half-rose and tried to draw his gun.

A batarang embedded itself in his desk and Mandragora swiveled to see Batman step out of the shadows to join Huntress before him.

"Me, too," the second vigilante said. "Hate to drop in unannounced, but we've just happened on a disturbing bit of news and we were hoping you could fill in some of the details."

Mandragora's expression hardened. "I got nothing to say to either of you," he blustered. "Now, you're trespassing here. Get out."

For answer, Huntress leveled her crossbow. "Clara Bressi," she snarled. "Where is she?"

"Who?" Mandragora replied. "Wh-what makes you think I know anything about her?"

"Last chance," Huntress said, adjusting her aim.

"Huntress, wait," Batman ordered.

She turned to him furiously, as the mobster heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, come _on_! You know who he is and what he's done. I can't believe you're—"

Batman shook his head. "This building is a designated historic landmark. The Gotham Heritage Society is going to be ticked if they have to spring for repairs. I mean, at point-blank range, that crossbow bolt would probably propel him backwards and pin him to the wall. And you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of wood."

Huntress sighed. "I guess I could pin a note to his corpse asking them to send the cleaning bill to a PO box. I can probably afford to reimburse them."

Batman tried not to smile when he heard Mandragora swallow. "Or…" he said, "we can take him up to the roof."

"Y-you're bluffing!" Mandragora stammered. "Everyone knows you Bats don't kill!"

Now it was time for Batman to smile. "Not in front of witnesses," he corrected.

"And anyway," Huntress said, smiling as well, "I'm not a Bat. I just work with them every now and again. When I do, I play by their rules, of course. But, see, a twelve-year-old girl is missing and she was last seen getting into your son's car."

"Y-you can't prove Benny did anything to her!"

Batman spoke again. "You have three sons, Stefano. Who said anything about Benny? Now, where is she?"

"I don't know!"

Huntress sighed. "Right. Batman, our alliance is over. He's mine." She pointed her crossbow behind her at the door. "Get up."

Batman sighed. "You remember how to remove any evidence that you were in the area? I've got other places to be and I don't know if I'll get back here in time to clean up after you."

"Don't worry about me. I'm not the one with a semi-public identity." She grinned. "But you _should_ leave the area, so you'll have an alibi if the cops come around asking where you were at the time of death."

Now on his feet, Mandragora was visibly pale. Batman struggled not to laugh. "You'll give me a thirty-minute head start?"

"Sure." She reached out, grabbed Mandragora's arm, and twisted it into a hammerlock. "I'd say thirty minutes is the _least_ amount of time I'll spend encouraging _Steve_ here to be more cooperative."

Batman shrugged. "Sounds good to me." He leaned in close to Mandragora. "Frankly, if I were you, I'd tell her what she wants to know. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could stop her from shooting you at this range."

"I don't know," Mandragora repeated, starting to shake. "Y-you don't understand. I really don't know!" He gripped the edge of the desk for support with his free hand. "My men were taking her."

"Where?" Batman demanded.

Mandragora took a shuddering breath. "It was too dangerous keeping her in the city. Benny hasn't always had the best judgment about who to trust. I didn't want word to get back to Bressi. I've got a cabin four hours upstate. Secluded. I figured it'd be a better place for her."

"Where's the cabin?" Huntress snapped, pressing the point of her bolt against Mandragora's Adam's apple.

"That won't do you any good. I heard from my people a couple of hours ago. She got away when they pulled in at a truck stop about an hour past Darby on the Interstate." As Huntress lowered her crossbow, his knees buckled slightly. "I really don't know where she is, now," he said. "Please, you have to believe me."

Batman and Huntress exchanged a look over the mobster's head. Huntress nodded slowly. "We do," she said.

Mandragora breathed a sigh of relief, which was immediately followed by a gasp, as he felt cold metal encircle his wrist. "NO!" he exclaimed. "You said you—"

"We do believe you," Batman said. "And we've just heard you confess to kidnapping, aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact…" He glanced at Huntress. "Am I leaving anything out?"

Huntress shrugged. "Maybe a civil charge for unjust confinement? You can ask the original Batman. I think he's studying that stuff."

"Maybe I will," Batman said. "After we turn this guy over to the cops."

Mandragora started to protest anew. Huntress closed the second cuff on his other wrist. "We could turn you over to Bressi instead," she suggested. Mandragora fell silent. "I thought you'd feel that way," she said smiling.

As they made their way out of the building, Mandragora couldn't help but wince, as he spotted his guards cuffed to support pillars with duct tape over their mouths.

* * *

Bressi heard them out in silence. When they were done, he regarded them impassively for a long moment. "You should have brought him back here," he said finally. "Him and that son of his."

No need to ask him which son he meant. Batman shook his head. "I told you, no killing."

"And I told _you_ there was a lot we could make people live through." He closed his eyes. "If anything's happened to her… She's twelve, Batman. A kid. Wasn't so long ago her mama, rest her soul, had her in frilly party dresses and hair ribbons. Now, she's somewhere in the countryside alone… scared…"

One of the hulking men standing inside the office cleared his throat. "Don Bressi," he said slowly, "that might not be entirely true."

Bressi turned to face him. "What?"

The enforcer nodded. "When she first came here, Don Bressi, she _was_ scared. I thought that if I taught her a few things, things any of us would have taught her brother if he'd asked us, it might give her more confidence."

Huntress's eyes narrowed. "What kinds of things might those be?" she demanded sharply.

The enforcer hesitated.

"Tell her, Bruno," Bressi said. "I'd like to hear for myself."

Bruno swallowed. "Some kicks and blocks. A bit of street-fighting. Disarming techniques. Camouflage. Um… let's say, ways to escape if you're caught and ways to not get caught again; I'm not sure the fancy word for it. I'd just started on krav-maga, when I found out that she'd been sneaking out at night. I meant for her to know that stuff to use as a last resort. A defense, if anyone tried to grab her. She was using it to try to find Intergang."

Bressi's face reddened. "And you didn't tell me?" he snapped.

"I knew how you'd react," Bruno said. He swallowed hard once more. "I told her what she was doing was dangerous and it had to stop. When I caught her trying to sneak out again, I practically tore her a new one and told her I wasn't teaching her anything else until I was convinced she wasn't going to run off looking for trouble."

At a signal from Bressi, one of the other men in the room drew his revolver.

"Hang on," Batman said. "Think about it. Thanks to…" he tilted his head, "Bruno?" at the other man's nod, he turned back to Bressi. "Bruno, here, your great-niece's chances at survival might have just shot through the roof. We already know that she gave Mandragora's guys the slip. I'm guessing that they would have done a pretty thorough search of the area before they reported back that she'd escaped, yes?"

Bruno nodded. "If I'd had a job like that and the mark escaped, especially if the mark were a kid? I think I'd probably ditch my phone, toss my wallet, and try to put a few states between me and my old life." He glanced at Bressi. "Not that Don Bressi's ever ordered a hit on a kid," he added hastily.

"Clara would have been on foot. She's too young to drive and bikes aren't allowed on the Interstate, so there wouldn't have been any at the truck stop for her to borrow." He turned to Bruno. "You teach her how to hotwire a car or motorcycle?"

Bruno gaped at him. "No way!"

"And you were the only one teaching her stuff?"

"As far as I know."

Batman nodded. "So, she'd have been on foot. She evaded at least two, maybe three guys—I figure there'd be a driver and at least one other man guarding her, maybe two. When she doesn't know the territory. And four hours later, she's still in the wind." He smiled tightly. "You ask me, Tony, your man Bruno here probably saved her life."

Bressi mulled that over. Then he gestured to the other enforcer, who slowly slid his gun back into its holster. "An hour past Darby?" he queried.

Huntress nodded. "So Stefano told us."

The phone rang then, startling them. Batman tried hard not to smile when he recognized the ring-tone:

_I woke up this morning_

_Got myself a gun…_

Bressi snatched it up. "Bressi he— _Clara?_ Where are you?" He listened briefly. "Stay there. I'm sending a car." He listened again. "I'll take care of it. You sit tight. Love you, too, Claretta."

He returned the phone to its charging base. "She's all right. She's at a Burger Barn in Bolland. Not on the Interstate. It's by a train station; probably one that isn't operating no more; she said it looked deserted." He motioned to Bruno. "You go."

Bruno nodded. Bressi wasn't finished talking.

"You go," he repeated, "because at this moment, you and the Bats are the only people I think I can trust. Clara told me something else, too, you see." His expression hardened. "It seems Mandragora's got a spy in our midst."

For a moment, nobody spoke. They scarcely dared to breathe. Then, they heard the sound of running feet coming from the other side of the wall behind them.

The enforcer who had pulled the gun earlier glanced at his boss.

Bressi nodded. "Alive and conscious," he said. "I'm going to want a couple of words with him."

Batman wondered whether they'd be printable.

* * *

Nicky DePalma had discovered the passage in the basement by chance. He'd seen Bressi's grandniece disappear down it one day when he'd gone into the games room to play a bit of pinball. After he'd finished, he'd gone into the wine cellar across the hall, leaving its door slightly open, and waited for the girl to emerge. Then he'd checked out the passage for himself.

In the three weeks since that day, Nicky had eavesdropped on many of Bressi's private meetings and telephone conversations and he'd dutifully reported back his findings to Benny Mandragora, hoping to finally convince Don Stefano's son that he, Nicky, had the right stuff to be accepted into the Family.

His reasons were twofold: he envied the Mandragoras their designer suits and fast cars, and he'd been head over heels in love with Nina Mandragora since his senior year of high school. She'd been a sophomore then and their relationship had lasted two months before her cousin Danny had drawn him aside and warned him off.

"You two may love each other," Danny had said seriously, "but it won't work. Her family won't accept you and she'll never go against them."

Nicky hadn't believed him at first. "I'll win them over," he'd said confidently. "When I meet them, I'll be on my best behavior and—"

"—and it won't make a bit of difference. The guy Nina ends up with is going to be well-connected. Practically part of the family already. You hearing me?"

He hadn't understood then. Not until he'd seen the small article in the front section of the newspaper that stated that the racketeering charges filed against Don Stefano had been dismissed due to insufficient evidence. It was the first time he'd realized that his girlfriend was from a mob family. He hadn't cared about that. He'd just wanted to be with her—and if it meant winning over one of her brothers, then he was prepared to do just that.

Over the next five years, he'd picked up gambling receipts, driven cars, and made deliveries, all on behalf of Benny Mandragora. When Benny had told him that he meant to plant him at Bressi's, it was the first time that he'd been frightened. He knew that if Bressi suspected that he was a spy, his life expectancy would be measurable in moments. But he'd been sure that doing this would finally convince Benny that he was brother-in-law material and get him to put in a good word for him and Nina with Don Stefano.

But now that Bressi knew there was a spy in the house, Nicky knew that he was sure to be discovered. He had to get out of here!

He raced to his car and tore down the gravel path. Ahead of him, the wrought-iron gates were closing, but he accelerated and made it through before they could come together. Unfortunately, when he tried to turn onto the road, he found that he was going far too fast and he barrelled into two parked cars on the opposite side of the street. In his rearview mirror, he could see several men in black suits running down the path to the gates. He opened his door and took off on foot.

All at once, a car honked behind him, then pulled up next to him. He heard the click of an automatic door release and a harsh voice yelled, "Get in!"

Nicky didn't argue. He jerked open the rear driver-side door and almost tumbled inside. As soon as he'd pulled it shut, before he even had the chance to fasten his seatbelt, the driver took off again. "Thanks," Nicky said. "Did Benny send you?"

The driver chuckled. "No, but I've been watching this place for a little while. I figured, sooner or later, something—or someone—interesting might turn up."

"In-interesting?" Nicky repeated.

The driver nodded. "I'd say anyone tearing out of the Bressi estate at close to ninety miles an hour probably has one hell of a story to tell. My employer and I would very much like to hear it."

"Who's your employer?" Nicky stammered. "Who are you?"

In the rearview mirror, Nicky saw the driver's smile. "You may call me, Mr. Fixx."

* * *

Inzerillo was watching the first season finale of _The Sopranos_ on DVD and starting to think about turning in for the night, when his phone rang. He picked it up, wondering who could be calling at this hour and bracing himself for more bad news. "Yeah?"

"It's Forrester," the voice on the other end whispered tersely. "I think I _might_ have a way to get you inside the Academy campus."

* * *

Clara sat at a table in a corner of the Burger Barn and nursed her ice water while peering anxiously out the window. Her first move, even before asking to use their phone, had been to visit the ladies room and scrub as much of the mud off her face as possible. She had her jacket zipped up, hiding her blouse, though there wasn't much she could do about her jeans beyond be thankful that they were black and didn't show as much dirt. Now, she was waiting for one of Uncle Tony's people to drive up and take her home.

She was trying not to think about what would happen next. They had to know that she'd sneaked out, right when Batman had got through talking about how the streets weren't safe.

Maybe they'd be so relieved that she was back home that they'd forget about that part of it.

She didn't believe it either.

It didn't matter, she told herself. She'd be on her way home, soon. That was the important thing. She smiled as she watched a sedan pull into the parking lot. Then her heart lurched. Those weren't Uncle Tony's people—they were the creeps she'd escaped from!

Her eyes darted around the dining room. Could she ask one of the cashiers to hide her? She decided against it. She'd seen how quickly they'd caved about twenty minutes ago, when a customer had started screaming about overcooked fries. The supervisor had apologized right, left, and center, comped the meal, and tossed in a voucher for half off the next purchase. If one of these guys pulled a gun, they'd probably escort him to her hiding place and give him a free Jolly Meal. She ran for the ladies' room.

There was a shout from behind that turned her blood to ice. They'd spotted her! She raced for the back door and pushed it open. Another one of the goons sprang forward, gripped her arm, and twisted it behind her back. Without pausing a beat, she turned into the hold and kicked, her foot striking her captor's kneecap. It was a move that Bruno had drilled her on, but warned her never to use without good reason. When she heard a sickening crunch that was quickly dwarfed by a howl of pain, she knew he'd been right; she'd just broken the guy's knee. He let go of her arm and fell to the pavement. Clara wasn't about to wait around. She bit her lip to hold back her tears—her arm _hurt_ —and ran. She had no idea where she was going, but she had to get away from the Burger Barn and she had to stick to fields and pastures, where the goons couldn't drive after her.

She had no idea when she'd be able to call Uncle Tony to explain what had happened and she only hoped he wouldn't be too upset at having to send someone after her again when she finally did.

* * *

Batman was not pleased to return to Bressi's mansion several hours later. "We've been over this," he snapped. "That signal is for police use only."

"Then get a burner phone and give me the number," Bressi shot back. "If that spotlight is the only way to reach out to you, you're damned right I'm going to use it! She wasn't at the Burger Barn."

Batman felt his anger dissipate. "Do you have any idea—?"

Bressi shook his head. "My guys are going to hang around the area until mid-morning. Maybe something spooked her and she'll be back when she feels safe. I was," he closed his eyes and brought a hand to his forehead, "I was wondering. You know people. The League. The Titans. The Society. Maybe some outfits whose names escape me. Is there anyone you can put on this? My guys…" His voice broke. "They… they aren't detectives. They could miss stuff, ya know?"

Dick pressed his lips together tightly. "I do know," he admitted. "Here." He pulled out a small ruled notebook with a pen secured to the wire binding by a length of narrow steel chain. "This is for you alone," he said, jotting down ten numerals. "Under no circumstance do you give this to anybody else, no matter how much you trust them. You call that number, you leave a message, and one of us will get back to you. Usually within the hour." He ripped the page out of the notebook and slapped it down on the desk blotter in front of Bressi. "I'll put some feelers out."

Bressi took the paper and examined it. "Batman? Thanks. I—" He blinked. He was alone in his office.

* * *

Derek Powers had just logged into his office computer and taken his first sip of morning coffee, when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. The number on the caller ID was familiar and the text was short: Call me. Now.

His email pinged softly and he gave a mental sigh when he saw the subject line. This was probably going to keep him busy past lunch. He texted back: At work. Can this wait?

This time the text was even shorter: NO.

He sighed once more, aloud this time. He got up from his desk. One of the last things Paxton had arranged for him before the scandal broke had been to get him an office with a door. He locked it now. Then he called. "What's so urgent?"

Fixx chuckled on the other end. "I've been having a long conversation with a dead man."

"Pardon?"

"I've granted him a temporary stay of execution. It remains in effect, so long as he keeps talking. So far, the guy's been a regular chatterbox. Eventually, I'll probably let Bressi and Mandragora place bids for the privilege of deciding the hour of his demise, but the demise is likely a foregone conclusion."

"Well, I'm glad you've been amusing yourself," Powers said slowly. But what has that got to do with me?"

"The man in question is a spy for the Mandragoras. I picked him up fleeing the Bressi mansion—right after Clara Bressi called her great uncle from Bolland to let him know that she was free and _he_ had a spy under his roof. Guy made the mistake of running, so now, they know who he is. Tony may hate spies, but Stefano Mandragora? Has a special loathing for idiots. So now, they'd both like a piece of him. Meanwhile, the kid wasn't waiting where she was supposed to be for a lift back to Gotham. Seems Mandragora's goons were still in the area and she split. So now, you get to play hero."

Powers blinked. "Come again?"

"You're an outdoorsman, Derek, right? They did a profile piece on you in the PMWE Monthly Magazine?"

"That's in-house," Derek said, sounding worried. "How would you even know about that?"

"I do my homework. When the article said that you enjoy hiking in State Parks, was that accurate? Or just hyperbole?"

"No, it's accurate," Derek replied. "I still don't see—"

"Let's just say you've got a better chance of finding the kid than a bunch of city guys in luxury sedans. I admit I don't have much to base this on; I'm not up there myself and the spy hasn't got a clue. _But_ the kid escaped from Mandragora's people about fifteen hours ago. In that time, she's managed to call home, avoid recapture—with prejudice; she broke one guy's kneecap with a kick—"

"How do you know that?"

"Mandragora's not the only person who can place a spy in a prime location. They called in to report. My guy relayed the intel my way. But here's the thing: their method of investigation is to cruise through the town—because a strange car going up and down every street in a small farming community don't look any kind of suspicious—and hope they catch a glimpse of the kid. It seems to me, though, that if the kid is smart—which she seems to be—she'll be avoiding the streets as much as possible. Especially since waiting around for her uncle's people almost got her nabbed again. She'll be keeping to the outskirts; a Giggle search tells me that there's a decent amount of forested land in those parts. There's also an old silver mine close by. They give tours during the summer, but it's a cave, it's dry, and it's maybe twenty minute's walk from the Burger Barn where the kid was last seen. In other words, there are plenty of places where a resourceful person can hide and someone who doesn't know the outdoors won't think to look."

"Hiking and spelunking aren't exactly the same thing," Derek said, thinking out loud. "But I might still know a thing or two."

"Get out there," Fixx said. "Find her. And if you should find Bressi's people while you're looking, it's not really a terrible thing if they hear that you're trying to help."

"They're going to wonder how I even know about her being missing."

Fixx chuckled. "You've got a two-hour drive to come up with a plausible story. I'm sure you'll think of something."

"I do have work to do," Powers said, his eyes straying to his computer monitor and the rapidly growing number of emails in his inbox.

"Yes. You do. You just need to prioritize better. Think of the big picture."

Derek took a deep breath. "I'll get my coat."

* * *

Dick slept in that morning, grateful that work allowed him the flexibility to come and go when he wanted to, for the most part—so long as he worked the requisite number of hours and made it in for departmental meetings. He woke slightly before eleven, was at the office before noon, and returned home a bit after half-past eight, glad that tonight was Tim and Cass's turn to patrol the city. As much as he insisted on the two-nights-on, one-night-off rule to keep stress and overwork at bay, it was usually no more than a sensible precaution. With everything going on in the city right now, however, Dick had to admit he needed it.

Barbara was in the foyer of their apartment, waiting for him when he pushed the door open. She tilted her head upwards for his kiss, but the worry in her eyes told him something was wrong. "Trouble?" he asked.

She let out an audible sigh. "That's one way to put it. Bressi called."

Dick shook his head. "I take it there's no word on his great-niece?"

Barbara replied with a head-shake of her own. "It gets worse, though," she said. "Bressi said to tell you that if she doesn't turn up within the next…" she looked at her watch. "…Twenty-one and a half hours, now," she continued, "he's going to deal with the Mandragoras himself."

Dick sucked in his breath. "That's going to be the spark that sets off this whole powder keg," he managed.

Barbara nodded. "I know."


	52. Chapter 51: Gonna Be Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta.
> 
> A/N: “Home by Now” written by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Jim Steinman. Performed on the Whistle Down the Wind original London cast album by the ensemble (Verve, 1999).
> 
> A/N: During Batman: No Man’s Land, it was established that Barbara possessed a rifle and knew how to use it.

_The locusts are singing_

_The sky is red_

_It’s gotten so late somehow_

_There’s gonna be trouble_

_You know what they said_

_[I] should have been home by now_

_—Jim Steinman, “Home by Now”_

**Chapter 51—Gonna Be Trouble**

"I knew things were working out too well," Dick muttered, as he pulled one of his gauntlets out from behind the false back in their walk-in closet. He reached behind the barrier again for the second glove, and then a third time for the aluminum attaché case he kept on one of the long wooden shelves lining the small room beyond.

"Too well?" Barbara asked, wheeling backwards a bit to get out of his way. "You mean, with a middle-school mafia princess playing vigilante, Scarecrow kidnapping Wayne Enterprises execs and staging a zombie outbreak, Hatter's vendetta against the Tweed brothers…"

Dick shook his head and carried the case and gauntlets over to the bed. Then he flipped open the case, popped one of the wrist compartments on the left glove, and started transferring nightarangs from case to costume. They clinked faintly as they went in. "This is Gotham," he pointed out. "That's par for the course and if I wanted a quiet life, I'd probably move to the Quad Cities. Or Blue Valley. Wally tells me living there is about as exciting as watching wallpaper fade. No, a new player on the streets and a couple of Arkham's worst breaking loose is just something I like to call 'Thursday'." He closed the compartment with an audible snap and reached for the right gauntlet. "They're skirmishes, Babs. Messy, sure. But nobody wants an all-out war, not even Bressi and Mandragora."

"I know," Barbara sighed. "This is forcing his hand. I mean, if you look at it from his perspective, it took a lot for him to work with you. Now, his grand niece's gone missing and he's probably worried sick. Not just about her. About how this makes him look to the other Families. He's allied himself with you—with us—for protection. This… makes him look weak and the alliance look useless."

"I know." He closed his eyes and exhaled noisily. "I should head up there, join in the search. But I can't justify taking time away from Gotham now. Not with things this tense."

"You're not shouldering all of this alone."

Dick nodded. "I know. You think Cass might jump at a road trip? Clara knows her. They've talked. It might make a difference."

Barbara considered. "It's not a bad idea, but I should probably point out that she's going to have one major disadvantage in getting up there: she still can't read very fast. If she's trying to make sense of the road signs while her Batcycle is going 65, she's either going to take a wrong turn or slow down and cause an accident." She brightened. "But if she and Helena went together…"

Dick smiled. "You don't think philosophical differences are going to come into play?"

"Philosoph…" Barbara's voice trailed off. "You mean, Helena's views on more permanent solutions to certain crime problems."

"That's one way to put it. Most of us are okay with working with Huntress, just so long as she avoids lethal force on the mission. Cass… might have some issues."

"She might," Barbara nodded. "Bruce did. Still does, I bet, but he can stick them on a shelf if he has to." She paused, thinking. "I'll talk to Cass about it. If she ever does decide to expand her activities beyond Gotham, whether with the Titans, the League, or some other outfit, she's going to have to work with people whose outlooks won't necessarily jibe with hers. She might as well rack up some experience. And Helena might be able to bond with the kid over mutual acquaintances or something. Plus, she's a teacher. She's got experience with kids. Cass doesn't. Not really."

"True," Dick agreed. "All right. I guess it's settled. I'll talk to Cass, you talk to Helena and, with any luck, they'll be on their way north within the hour."

* * *

 

Inzerillo was relieved that they weren't meeting in the Iceberg. After his last appearance there, he knew that Penguin had probably given his bouncers orders to turn him away at the door. That situation wasn't likely to change until he did something to prove that he was back on top. Once that happened, he'd enjoy seeing the monocled little toad grovel before him before he administered some well-deserved payback. Perhaps, he'd take over the restaurant himself and force Cobblepot to bus tables for him. That would be amusing…

From down the street, he heard the faint stirrings of _Satin Doll_ , a sure sign that he was nearing his destination. The Paradise Club was one of Gotham's best-known jazz clubs and had a well-deserved reputation for both its music and its Cajun menu. While Inzerillo liked jazz, he normally wasn't big on Cajun food, but even he had to admit that the Paradise's boudin balls and rice and gravy were worth coming back for. Sergeant Forrester had asked to meet there and he was running late, but finding parking in this part of the city wasn't easy. Inzerillo picked up the pace.

The hostess smiled and nodded when he gave his name. "Mr. Forrester has already arrived, sir," she said. "Let me just point you to his table. It's over in the corner by the cypress trees. After you've had your meal, feel free to move into the lounge if you'd like to hear the band. There'll be live entertainment until midnight."

Inzerillo nodded absently and headed off in the direction she'd indicated. The fronds from the artificial trees gave the table some measure of privacy and it was far enough from the kitchen, restrooms, and lounge to ensure that they were unlikely to be disturbed by anyone save their waiter.

Forrester saw him and waved him over. "Enrico," he said, "it's good to see you. I've been mulling over your dilemma for the last couple of days, and I believe that this gentleman here can help you solve it." He motioned to his table companion, who leaned forward. In the candlelight, his face was half in shadow, but still familiar. "Please. Let me introduce you to Councillor Neal Jandt. He believes that he has a way to get you where you'd like to go with no one the wiser…"

"At least," Jandt interjected with a hearty chuckle, "not until it's too late."

* * *

 

Batgirl kept her eyes on the woman in purple on the 'cycle ahead, keeping a respectful distance behind. The last time she'd slowed to try to read some of the road signs, an eighteen-wheeler had moved into the gap and she'd had several moments of near-panic when she realized that she'd passed two exits before the van had changed lanes and she'd once again seen Huntress's cape billowing ahead.

She thought that, with a bit of practice and a guide, she could probably learn to make sense out of some of these signs. The ones that had pictures, instead of words, for example. While some of them were gibberish, she had a pretty good idea of what a drawing of a picnic table signified, or one of a tent.

Huntress signaled a turn and Batgirl spied an exit up ahead. She followed her companion off the Interstate. They pulled over at a nearby gas station. Huntress doffed her helmet and smiled. "Well, we're almost there. I figured we should fill up first so we can make it back to Gotham on one tank. Welcome to Nolan." When Batgirl dismounted and looked around, trying to get her bearings, the older woman's smile broadened. "First road trip?" she asked.

Batgirl shrugged. She wasn't entirely sure how to answer the question. She'd lived almost a decade roaming from place to place. Maybe that counted as one long trip, and roads had been involved. She'd ridden to Bludhaven on several occasions, too.

After a moment, Huntress reached for the pump nozzle. Batgirl tilted her head in disbelief. "Here?" she asked.

"I'm down about three quarters of a tank," Huntress pointed out. "I'm not getting back to Gotham without refuelling. You're probably in the same situation."

"Here?" Batgirl repeated. "But… they'll see."

Huntress sighed. "We're paying customers, too. And the attendant will have a nice story to tell his or her family tonight. You have money on you?"

Batgirl nodded.

"Then let's pay inside and fill up." She broke off. "You're okay with numbers, right?"

Batgirl nodded again. "Numbers, yes. Algebra… maybe?"

Huntress grinned at that. "Math wasn't my best subject in high school. Once we started getting into polynomials and functions, I kind of hit a wall."

"A wall?"

Huntress let out a sigh and her smile turned a bit rueful. "I mean, it was like there was a wall between me and the right answers and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break through it."

Behind her mask, Batgirl felt her eyebrows shoot up. "You?" she asked, not sure that she was understanding correctly.

"Hey," Huntress shrugged, "some people are good at math. I wasn't one of them. I got by," she continued. "But it wasn't fun and it wasn't easy. And… let's just say that there are reasons I don't teach high school math."

Cass pondered that for a moment. Then she pulled her 'cycle closer to another pump and opened the gas tank.

"Hang on. We've got to pay first," Huntress laughed. "Oh. You do have cash on you, right? I'm not sure using a credit card is a good idea in costume."

Cass nodded. "No credit cards. No bank account."

"Right," Huntress nodded back. "I just thought that maybe Batman had given you a card on his account for expenses or…"

Cass shook her head. "No."

"Got it. Okay, then." Huntress pulled her cape around her and pulled a wallet out of the lining. "You want to go in, or should I?"

Batgirl hesitated. "You," she said. "Here." She pulled out her own money and counted out the exact change. She didn't want Huntress to think that she couldn't manage money. "I don't… Your costume isn't… scary. Mine is."

Huntress laughed. "Yeah, maybe it's not just the crooks who are a superstitious, cowardly lot. I'll be right back."

Once the other woman had gone inside the gas station to pay, Batgirl took another look at her surroundings. _If I were twelve… scared… in danger… then where…?_

She shook her head. Then she pulled out her smartphone and called up the area map that Oracle had sent her. _She'd want cover… shelter… water…_ All at once she smiled.

_Old Silver Mine._ There was no guarantee that Clara would find her way there. She didn't know the area, and she might not have struck out in that direction. But Cass had been in enough small towns to know that outsiders were conspicuous and if Clara didn't want attract attention, it would make sense that she'd strike out for someplace off the beaten track. The mine was a good place to start looking. And they were only about ten miles away from it.

She glanced impatiently at the gas station office, wondering how long Huntress was going to take.

* * *

 

Tony Bressi waited by his telephone projecting an imposing façade, one which affected strength and power. Today, it was a thin veneer. He had called the Bat's answering service—or whatever the hell that number was—only twenty minutes earlier. He was resolved to wait at least another forty before he called for another update. He should probably give it longer. His own people might be growing uneasy. His worry was natural, but displaying it so openly could be interpreted as a sign of weakness. He could not afford to appear weak.

He reached for the phone and called a different number. "Georgie," he spoke into the handset, "You find out for me when Mandragora's next wine shipment is due in port; date, time, pier, the works. And get me a crew with an explosives expert in it."

He hung up and called another number. "Mando, I want two guys keeping tabs on each of Stefano's grandkids. Don't let 'em do anything, yet. Don't let 'em be spotted. But make sure you know where they are twenty-four-seven." As he replaced the phone on its base, one of his enforcers glanced at him with a worried expression.

"Don Bressi…" he began.

Tony shook his head. "I don't want to," he said. "They shouldn't be part of this. But if Stefano does anything to Clara, we're going to have to send him a message. Or, in this case," he added without a hint of levity, "five messages."

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. If the Bats brought Clara back, safe and sound, then the only action he'd take would be against that wine shipment. But there was no way that he was going to sit back and let the law—or any high-priced mouthpiece—rule on Mandragora's guilt and probably let him off with a slap on the wrist or toss the case for lack of evidence. If anything happened to Clara, one way or another, it was going to be a capital case… and if the courts didn't see it that way, Tony Bressi didn't much care.

* * *

 

Clara hugged herself in the dark and tried to pretend she wasn't in a hopeless situation. The cave had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It had been dry. It had been cool, but not uncomfortably so. And it had been huge. She'd figured it would be a good place to lose the creeps who were chasing her, and she'd be able to get back into town later to try her uncle.

Until she'd rounded a corner and found herself in near-total blackness. At first, she'd thought she could just stay right here, out of sight, until morning. Then she'd heard something. It might have been the wind, or a shower of sand. It might have been footsteps. And Clara realized that she might have left tracks behind her and she needed to get further in. It wasn't easy getting around in the dark, but light meant danger and she knew she had to keep moving. With her eyes closed, and one hand pressed against the wall, it wasn't so bad. When the wall turned, she turned with it, moving down a side passage. She didn't know how long she went on, only that she lost all sense of direction. It didn't matter. So long as she held onto the wall, she knew she could find her way back.

That was when she'd started to take a step and almost tumbled when her foot encountered empty air. She'd crouched down and tried to feel how deep or how wide the hole was. It might be two feet down or twenty. And it was farther than she wanted to stretch when, if she overbalanced, she might fall. She'd scuttled back, gotten to her feet and tried to retrace her steps. She stretched out her hand for the wall and found that it wasn't there! When she'd stumbled, she must have moved away from it. Well, it had to be somewhere. She took a cautious step to her left and almost screamed when the ground tilted sharply and she slid several feet down. When she stopped, she stretched her arms out in all directions. She couldn't see anything. She had no idea where the wall was now. She was dirty and scraped up and even if she somehow manage to get back up there in the dark, she had no idea how she would find the wall when she couldn't even find a safe place to step.

She was lost. And there was a very good chance that she was going to die here.

Clara hugged herself in the dark and tried not to cry.

* * *

 

Derek Powers tensed as he saw the black sedan in his rear-view mirror. Such a vehicle was as out of place in a town like this as his own Jaguar. Once they saw it, they'd have to know he wasn't local. And, despite Fixx's apparent faith in him, Derek still hadn't come up with a plausible explanation for how he was supposed to know that Clara Bressi was in the vicinity. He turned into a service station and stopped by the pumps. The sedan drove past and Derek breathed again.

He looked around. From here, he had a good view of the cave that marked the entrance to the silver mine. He hoped the Bressi kid was there. He'd much rather explore a cave than comb the forest. When he hiked, he stuck to established trails and he filed his route with the proper people, so that if he ran into difficulty, they knew where to send a search party. He didn't feel like trying to track a kid in the great outdoors, who was probably avoiding all marked paths. At least with the caves, there were only so many passages she could have taken.

Yes, he'd start with the mine.

Derek peeled out of the service station and took the main road north.

* * *

 

Clara wondered how long she'd been sitting here. She was thirsty and dusty and wanted to sleep, but she wasn't sure if it was safe to. Wasn't there something about how just before you froze to death, you started feeling warm and sleepy? It had been cold earlier. Maybe not cold enough to freeze, but what if the temperature had been dropping so slowly she hadn't realized it? More to the point, if she was asleep, she might not hear a search party coming to look for her.

She told herself that she was being silly. Nobody knew where she was. Except that Uncle Tony did know that she was in Boland. He'd have people looking for her and they might come here.

Mandragora might also know that she was in Boland by now; his goons would have to report to him eventually.

"Clara…?"

Her ears pricked up.

"Clara…?"

It wasn't her imagination. Someone was looking for her. But was it a friend or a foe?

"Clara…?"

If she answered and it was Mandragora's people, then she was as good as dead. But if she didn't answer and they went away, then she was also as good as dead.

"Clara…?"

She crossed her fingers and rose painfully to her feet, trying to ignore her stiff muscles. "Here!" she coughed. Then, a bit louder, "Here! I'm here!"

Derek Powers heard the faint call and smiled. So, Fixx's suggestion had been right. The girl _had_ come here. "Clara," he said calmly, I need you to sit tight. I'm coming to find you." He shone his flashlight and found that he was in a large chamber with three passageways branching off. "I'm going to call your name and I need you to respond." He forced himself to chuckle. "Or, we can play 'Marco Polo,' if you like. What's important is that you keep responding to me so I know I'm on the right track. And when you see the light from my flashlight tell me, okay?"

There was a moment's silence. "Polo."

"Good girl. Hang in there." He removed the backing from a piece of reflective tape and affixed it to the right hand side of the passage he was about to take. Then he stuck his hand in his jacket pocket again to reassure himself that the rest of the markers he'd cut were still there. He didn't know much about caves, but he did know the importance of marking a trail. And while there was a trail already marked off for spelunkers to take, there was no guarantee that Clara had chosen that route, so following it might not lead him in the right direction.

Several yards ahead, the passage forked again. "Marco?"

"Polo."

He smiled and affixed another piece of reflective tape. He wondered whether Bressi was offering a reward for the girl's safe return. If he wasn't, Derek reflected, maybe he could contrive to hold onto the girl a bit longer. Or perhaps, it would be best to bring her back now and trade on the mobster's goodwill. Bressi would probably open a lot of doors for the man who reunited him with his grand-niece. And that kind of networking might offer more dividends down the road than a lump cash sum, no matter how attractive…

Turning the possibilities over in his mind, he was smiling as he came to the next branch-off. "Marco?"

"Polo."

Oh, yes. Derek Powers was definitely on the right path…

* * *

 

Batgirl had never realized how much roadwork got done in the spring. Detours and closed lanes meant that they were arriving almost an hour later than they'd anticipated when they'd struck out from Gotham, but at last, they'd reached Boland. Huntress's face fell when she spied the foot path leading toward the mine entrance. "We'll have to leave the cycles here," she said, waving toward one of the two empty parking areas—one on each side of the mine. The path up to then entrance formed a rough chevron, with the cave mouth situated at the 'point'. "Is there any sign that she came this way?"

Batgirl shrugged. "Wait."

They walked out of the lot and approached the steep access path. Batgirl bent down. "Here," she said. When Huntress stooped over her, Batgirl indicated the footprints. "Sneaker," she said. "I think… not adult. Or short. Not heavy. Also… didn't know path." She indicated where the wearer of the sneakers had skidded and slipped.

"A twelve-year-old girl, maybe?" Huntress asked, smiling. "If she came here at night, it must have been almost pitch-black. Maybe the moonlight would have given her something to see by, but it wouldn't have been much."

"Possible." The path proved to be steep and in some places, quite narrow. There was a guardrail, but it was in poor repair and Huntress was surprised that their quarry had made it up here in one piece when she couldn't have seen the trail clearly. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the mine entrance. When they did, Batgirl sucked in her breath.

"Problem?"

Cass nodded. "Two tracks leaving. One… we followed. But here… This is from… boot. For hiking. Probably man. A man," she added belatedly. "Strong. Used to hikes. Sure of way. I think… he came..." She gestured toward the path that led to the second parking area.

"Mandragora's people, d'you think?" Huntress asked. Before Batgirl could respond, she was already answering her own question. "No. The goons who lost her wouldn't be wearing hiking boots. I _guess_ it's possible they could have sent in a professional tracker, but given how sensitive this whole thing is, they'd be more likely to keep things inside the family. The Mandragora boys don't hike, they don't hunt… I think a couple of them fish, but that's on a private lake up north." She sighed when Batgirl tilted her head quizzically. "I dated Frankie Mandragora for a while. I thought I might pick up some intel that way. He took me up to the cottage for a couple of weekends. There are some nice nature walks up there, but nothing where you'd need special gear."

"Local?" Batgirl asked. When Huntress frowned, she elaborated. "I mean… someone from town?" She smiled under her mask. Just last week, Dr. Arkham had told her that she was getting better at using more words when she spoke, as well as when she wrote. Of course, his revelation had made her self-conscious and she'd barely uttered five words during the rest of the session. Now, working with Huntress, she realized that Dr. Arkham was right. While she'd never rival Dick in what Tim called 'the chatter department,' when she had to make herself understood, she did have the extra words to allow her to do so.

"Maybe," Huntress said, oblivious to her companion's newfound elation. "The mine's open for tours later in the year. It could be someone come to inspect before the season starts." She frowned. "I guess we'll never know if we don't follow."

"Right."

The tracks led into the second lot and stopped. Batgirl pointed to the tire treads, their imprint still clear in sand. "Left together," she said. "We're… too late."

* * *

 

"Thanks, Helena," Dick said, his shoulders slumping. "I'll see what we can turn up on the boot and tire treads. Yeah, that's an idea. Let me know what you find out." He ended the call and turned to Barbara.

"She's going back to the Burger Barn Clara called from last night. Maybe someone saw something." He punched the wall. "Damn it!"

"If you want to put on the gloves and go a few rounds with the heavy bag, I'll understand," Barbara replied. "Probably better for your knuckles." A tone sounded from one of her many computer consoles and she looked quickly back to its monitor.

"Just got the digital imaging files from Cass. Let me route them to the 3D scanner so I can get the models started." She smiled. "Bet you wished you could do this kind of thing back in your short-pants days."

"We did," Dick said, his irritation already fading. "Only _we_ had to use dental stone. Or ask your dad nicely to lend us the casts that his CSI unit had already made." He smirked. "Did you know that puppy dog eyes are visible even through a domino mask?"

Barbara laughed. "Yes… I do believe I've had some first-hand experience with that, Current Bat-wonder." Another tone sounded. "Scan's complete," she said, bantering tone replaced with crisp professionalism. "The 3D printing is going to take a bit longer, though."

Dick nodded. "I guess I'll head off to work, then. Sal's a great guy to work for, and the last thing I'd want is for him to think I'm taking too much advantage of flexible scheduling. Better give him my eight hours. Meanwhile…" he sighed. "I think we might need reinforcements in case things escalate. Can you send out some feelers and see how many of our colleagues might be able to swing a Gotham spring break getaway?"

"Now there's something I'd never hear Bruce ask."

"True," Dick admitted, stooping down to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "But then, I'm not Bruce."

She kissed him back. "Thankfully," she replied. "I'm on it."

"Stay safe."

"You too," she said, flashing him a quick grin. Then he was off.

Barbara pulled up a video chat session, her smile giving way to the worry she was feeling. It was all well and good to joke and banter, but somewhere out there was a lost twelve-year-old and they just might be her only hope. "Come on, Clara," she whispered, even as she scanned her contact list. "Give us a clue."

* * *

 

At first, Clara wasn't concerned that Mr. Powers hadn't called Uncle Tony to let him know she was safe, nor offered to let her make the call. She knew that rates could be higher for long distance and she figured he might want to wait until they were closer to Gotham. When she saw the sign for Bristol Township come into view though, she asked about it.

"There'll be plenty of time for that once we get back to my place," Powers replied genially. Then he added ruefully, "Assuming we ever get out of this traffic. I can't believe we're down to one lane in rush hour."

Clara frowned. "I thought you'd take me right to my uncle's," she said. "He's got to be worried sick."

Powers nodded, still smiling. "Your uncle's a very powerful man, Clara. I'm not sure if it would be safe to turn up on his doorstep unexpected. I'll call him to make the arrangements from my house."

"Oh," Clara said. "Okay, then. Hey, could you put some music on, please? WBAH should be in the middle of the Top 40 Countdown."

Powers smiled. "Sure thing." As his fingers moved to the radio dial, Clara unfastened her seatbelt, pushed her door open and rolled out, eluding Powers' frantic grip. She didn't know who this guy was, but she did know that he wasn't a friend. She made it onto the grassy verge that bordered the highway and quickly ran back in the direction they'd come, trying not to get freaked out by the blaring horns and shouts from car windows. There was no way that Powers was going to be able to back up to grab her, not bumper-to-bumper in a single lane. He'd have to get off at the next exit and double back.

All the same, she knew she needed to get off the road. The last thing she wanted was to run from Powers right into the arms of Mandragora's goons. Maybe there was a service station or an information center or…

Her eyes lit up as she realized that she was running past a pickup truck with a canvas tarp covering the truck bed. The rope tying it down had come loose and one corner flapped in the breeze. She was on the passenger side. The driver and the other cars behind him might not notice if she jumped in the back. And even if he did… if he called the cops on her, she just had to say who she was and she'd be back with her uncle almost before she could blink.

She was on the tailgate and under the canvas in record time. There was enough light to see the crates and cylinders that made up the cargo, but not enough for her to read the shipping labels. It didn't matter. At this point, it could be geometry textbooks and she wouldn't care.

She scuttled into a corner at the front end and tried to relax.

* * *

 

Barbara had been having a rough twenty-four hours. Clara's disappearance was occupying much of her focus, and whatever attention she had left over was being directed toward the mob situation. Things were tense. Everyone was on edge. In situations like this, any stupid little thing could set off the war they were trying to avoid. Someone might be checking their gun before storing it away and, not realizing that there was still a round left in the magazine or chamber, squeeze off a shot. It happened. That was exactly why one was _supposed_ to check a gun before storing it. She remembered as much from her own firearms safety training course. But at a time like this, someone hearing the gun go off might mistake it for an opening salvo.

_The shot heard round the city_ , she thought, shaking her head.

She sighed. Then she typed some instructions into one of her computers and pulled up a list of reports. She sighed once more. Ever since Metropolis, she'd been keeping a close eye on organized crime expenditures. It was a big job. The funds circumnavigated the globe, resting at times in offshore accounts in the Caymans, in Swiss and South American banks, and at times, completely off of the radar for months. She suspected that there were currently several briefcases stuffed with hundred-dollar bills reposing in some mobsters' offices in case ready cash was needed in a hurry.

Right now, she was mostly focused on recent transactions to both the Bressi and Mandragora accounts. There had been some unusual fluctuations, but not unsurprising ones. Both factions were stockpiling munitions, as were some of the other families that had aligned themselves with one faction or the other. It was worrying, if understandable.

Barbara frowned. She felt like she was overlooking something potentially serious. Or someone. Who was she…? She smiled to herself. Most of the mob families of any significance had fallen into line between the two major factions, but there were a couple of players who hadn't and she'd been paying them less attention than, perhaps, she should have.

Penguin was still trying to play all sides in this conflict. No surprises there. So long as he wasn't putting all of his clout behind one family, he wasn't an immediate concern, though his activities would bear closer scrutiny. When this crisis was averted, she didn't want to discover that, behind the scenes, he'd been quietly amassing greater power and resources. If she didn't watch out, organized crime in Gotham might just wind up a monopoly under his direction. As if they didn't have enough problems already.

She hadn't heard much from Inzerillo lately. Not since he'd become something of a laughingstock anyway. It was possible that he was laying low and trying to stay out of the action. Possible, but she doubted it. "What have you been up to, Enrico?" she muttered, as she called up the data. Her eyebrows shot up. She should have known he'd throw in his lot with Intergang if nobody else would have him. That was trouble, but Intergang was too smart to give him any sort of _carte blanche_ until he proved himself. Her eyes dipped several lines down. That was a large funds transfer deposit, and it was going to a numbered account she recognized. But where had it come from?

She sucked in her breath when the trace results came back. "Why is Neal Jandt getting involved with the mob?" she wondered aloud. "And why with you, of all people?"

With some trepidation, she checked the numbered account, trying to see where the money had gone. She frowned. "And just what do you plan on doing with a truckload of ammo and explosives?"

* * *

 

Enrico Inzerillo opened his office door and checked the hallway to make sure that he wasn't being observed. Next, he examined his phone. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he still pried off the casing and looked at the innards, trying to remember if they looked exactly as they had last week when he'd performed this inspection. Truthfully, he had no idea how to tell if his phone was bugged, but it still made him feel better if he went through this. He sometimes made a show of doing so when there was someone in his office. If word got around that he was so paranoid he checked his phone for bugs, perhaps the people who really wanted to know his secrets would think twice before trying to put him under surveillance.

He tried to squelch the thought that at present, nobody cared about his secrets. That would change soon. Once he was back on top, he'd need to be on his guard again, so there was no point in lowering it now.

He called a number he'd been given and, when a voice came on the line, he announced tersely, "It's set."

"You got someone onto the academy grounds?" the voice demanded.

Inzerillo chuckled. "As good as. I found out through a certain municipal councillor who's keeping a careful watch on the GCPD in general—and the academy specifically—that they're currently doing some hiring. Now, funnily enough, I own a few cops in this city. I've had a couple of them apply and they're going to be interviewed. One later today, in fact. He knows a thing or two about explosives."

"And you seriously believe that he's going to bomb the academy?"

"Oh, yes," Inzerillo said. "At this point, he's been with me too long and he's in too deep. He'll do what needs done."

"Where is he going to plant his device? We'd prefer not to have to kill a whole class of cadets; Intergang might be able to use some of them."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Inzerillo said. "Wayne's one of four cadets learning mounted drills. And he's on the academy grounds early every morning, grooming his horse, mucking out his stall… I figure we plant the device in the stable and set it to go off around six AM and… they might even finish mopping up what's left of him before the other cadets show up for their first class. And if they don't…" he said, "That's just the opening salvo. There's a campground on the land adjacent to the academy. Not open now, but I've arranged to use it. As we speak, a truckload of munitions is on its way over to that site. When the bomb goes off, there's going to be a certain amount of panic and confusion. That's when my men go in and… secure the perimeter. And if the Bat isn't down, I think they'll be able to finish the job…"

* * *

 

The truck finally slowed and came to a halt. Clara remained in her corner, trying to figure out how she was going to explain herself when she was discovered. She heard the cab door open and shoes, maybe boots, crunching on something. Gravel, she thought, or perhaps dead leaves.

"You're late," a voice said, making her start involuntarily. She hadn't realized that anyone else was there.

"Hit some traffic on the Interstate," another voice—almost definitely the truck driver's—snapped back.

There was a grunt. Then the first voice said, "It's here?"

"Check it," the driver said, and Clara heard something rustle. "Got your manifest right here."

"Later," the first voice said. "The game's coming on in five minutes. Those bombs and bullets aren't going anywhere. Just lock up and come on in. We can go over the list after."

The footsteps receded. Clara heard a wooden door slam shut and then the sound of a bolt sliding into place. She waited a few minutes, before she peered out from under the canvas cover. She was in a large wooden building—probably a barn. It sure smelled like one. She could see sunlight coming in through the cracks between the planks.

She eased herself out of the truck bed and onto the canvas. Getting down was a bit harder than getting up had been; although she wasn't really that high off the ground, it felt like a much more significant drop. She tried to climb down slowly, but her foot slipped and she fell about four feet to a packed-dirt floor, bruising her tailbone in the process. She sat up with a groan and rubbed the spot.

Even though she'd heard the bolt, she tried the door, hoping she'd been wrong. She hadn't been. A quick look around told her that there was no other door.

She was locked in a barn with a truckload of bombs and bullets. Clara groaned. How was she going to get out of this one?


	53. Basic Laws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> A/N: "Choosing When It's Too Late" written by Sir Tim Rice and John Farrar. Recorded by Cliff Richard on the Heathcliff Live (The Musical) original soundtrack album (EMI, 1996).

_Do you now suppose I'll leave with no reply?_

_Basic laws apply_

_An eye demands an eye_

— _Sir Tim Rice, "Choosing When It's Too Late"_

**Chapter 52—Basic Laws**

The barn wasn't heated, but it was dry. Clara was exhausted after having spent the last few hours running for her life, getting lost in a cave, and eluding yet another person keeping her from her uncle. She had no idea whether Derek Powers had meant to kill her, hold her hostage, or give her back to the Mandragoras, but she hadn't been about to wait around and find out.

Meanwhile, she had shelter. There was a pile of hay for cover and warmth. And she wasn't hungry or thirsty yet. At least Powers had given her a sandwich and a Zesti when he'd found her. It didn't make up for his being a bad guy, of course, but she was still grateful.

With that thought in her head, Clara did her best to burrow into the haystack, trying to conceal herself as much as possible, while leaving herself room to see and breathe. That done, she closed her eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep…

…which lasted until she was unceremoniously jolted awake by a loud blast of noise that sounded like it had come from just outside!

* * *

"So," Cadet Angelina Parsons smiled, as the four cadets led their horses back into the stable, "was it worth getting up early this morning?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You appear to be under the impression that all of us got to sleep last night," he deadpanned.

Brenner laughed.

Norton grinned. "I don't think the horses minded," he said, stroking his gelding's neck affectionately. "If you ask me, I think they missed us."

"You, maybe," Bruce grunted, letting Norton precede him into the building. "Brenner and I have been here almost every day—"

Something was wrong. Bruce couldn't put his finger on what, but he'd learned to trust his instincts. "Get back!" he snapped.

"Wha—?" Parsons gaped as Bruce grabbed her horse's reins in the same hand that held those of his own mount and gripped her arm with his other. "Squad Leader, what are you—?"

There was no time for explanations. "MOVE!" He yelled, breaking into a run and dragging her behind him. "NOW!" He was glad to see that Brenner was following instructions. Norton. Norton was inside the stables. For an instant, he thought about running in, but they were already too far off and these two might just follow him if he tried. "PETE!" he bellowed. "PETE, GET OUT OF THERE! GET—"

There was a deafening roar. And then a wind seemed to catch them up and hurl them forward. Cadets and horses shrieked, as a wave of heat blasted the air behind them.

Bruce saw the paddock fence rushing toward them, dropped the horses' reins and flung himself to one side. And then, his world exploded into blood and pain and he knew no more.

* * *

He awoke to the smells of smoke and burnt wood and a bright light shining in his eyes. He hadn't hurt this badly in over three years. He couldn't say he'd missed it.

"Cadet Wayne?" It was Fochs's voice.

He was lying on a stretcher and he struggled to sit up. "Sir." His voice wasn't much more than a croak.

"At ease, cadet," Fochs said. "We're getting you to the hospital."

Bruce nodded. "The others?" he asked. Fochs hesitated a fraction of a second too long. Bruce fought once more to raise himself. "The others?" he repeated more forcefully.

"Brenner and Parsons are going with you," Fochs relented. "We don't know how badly hurt any of you are at the moment, but Brenner's the only one who didn't get clear of the horses in time."

Bruce closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. "Norton?" he asked.

Fochs pressed his lips together and pushed them in and out rapidly several times. "We're… still trying to get him out of the stable," he said finally.

Bruce sucked in his breath. From where he was lying, he had a clear view of the Academy stable—or what was left of it. At least one stone wall had collapsed inward and a good part of the roof had fallen in on top of it. And while part of the structure remained intact, that part had a plainly-visible door. If Norton had been in that part of the building, he would have gotten out by now. Which meant…

"Lie back down, Cadet," Fochs snapped. "That's an order."

Bruce shook his head. "If he's still in there—"

"I know," Fochs snapped. "But you're in no shape to go in after him." He shook his head. "And I suspect you know that as well as I do."

Just because Fochs was right didn't make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow.

"Look," Fochs said softly, "the stable didn't just spontaneously explode. This was deliberate. Assuming you check out medically, I've got a feeling that CSI will be able to use your assistance." He sighed. "Or, you disobey a direct order, stagger off of the stretcher, try to pull Norton out—as if we didn't have a team of experts already tackling that problem—and hope that what's left of the building doesn't fall in on both of you." Fochs sighed again. "For what's it's worth, if you were in better shape, I'd probably let you try it. But you aren't and," he repeated, "we both know it."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I have a broken collarbone," he admitted. "Maybe a hairline fracture of my left humerus, maybe just some bad bruising. A number of additional bruises and lacerations, but I haven't lost enough blood for it to be serious." He winced when he touched his scalp; it hurt even with the gauze bandage. The dressing was damp, and not just with sweat. "The scalp wound needs stitches, too," he continued. "But all of that can be treated here in the infirmary."

"Cadet…"

"Sir, he was under my command." He shook his head and reminded himself that he wasn't anywhere near the top of the food chain in this organization. As much as it galled him, he did have to follow a superior officer's orders. "Sir," he said softly, "I've been injured enough in the past to know that what I'm dealing with now isn't life-threatening. If you patch me up here, then I'll be able to—"

Fochs actually seemed to be considering his words. Then he shook his head. "You might well be right, cadet. But you could also be wrong. And I'm not taking that chance."

"Belay that, Sergeant," a new voice broke in.

Fochs whirled about and immediately came to attention. "Captain!" he exclaimed, snapping off a salute.

"Get them all to the infirmary," MacInnes said. "We've just been informed that what's happened here this morning was part of what's been going on in the city for the last couple of weeks. Until we've got the whole story, we're sealing up the campus. From now until I say differently, nobody goes in or out." He looked at Bruce and gave a heavy sigh.

"For all our sakes, I just hope your assessment of your injuries was accurate. I've got a feeling we're going to need your assistance before this is over."

* * *

Ben Bailey groaned and wondered what he'd been thinking when he set his cellphone ringtone to "Macarena". The lively beat seemed to intensify the pounding in his head. Just how many six-packs had he drunk watching the game yesterday? A groan drew his attention to the armchair. Denny was passed out, an empty beer can clutched in his hand and a dark stain on the shag carpet where some of the can's contents had spilled out. Bleary-eyed, Bailey fumbled for the phone, picked it up, and belched. "Yeah?"

"You idiot!" the voice on the other end shrieked loudly enough for Bailey to wish he was still hearing the ringtone. "You were supposed to set off those explosives over an hour ago!"

"Wha—?" Bits and pieces started coming back to him now. There was going to be an explosion at the police academy stable on the other side of the highway. When that happened, he was supposed to set off the munitions in his barn to add to the chaos. But that wasn't supposed to happen until seven AM and it was only— _eight seventeen_. "Uh… Sorry?"

"Sorry? You incompetent, bottom-feeding, useless, sack of…" Bailey held the phone at arms-length and waited for the caller to finish. When the yelling finally ceased, he pulled it back to his ear once more.

"Uh, see, I w-was gonna set the munitions off, just like you wanted, but then I r-realized that they've got cameras and stuff over there and they'd spot me in a second. But I can do it now, if you want."

"No! By now, they've got their security out in full force. No, you imbecile. Just sit on those munitions until we tell you to use them and when we do, try actually using them!"

Bailey swallowed. "Um… okay. Uh, can I get the stuff out of my truck? I'm gonna need to take it out on the road tomorrow."

The voice on the other end emitted a long-suffering groan. "Fine. Keep it in the barn. Don't let anyone see it. And try not to get yourself killed handling the cargo. That stuff is earmarked for the cops. I'm not wasting good thermite on the likes of you." The line went dead.

Bailey tucked the phone into his pocket. Coffee. He needed coffee before he started unloading the truck. And maybe just a little hair of the dog, too…

* * *

Barbara hadn't felt this helpless since the shooting that had led to her father's retirement. The only good thing was that she didn't have to play dumb this time, when the police contacted her. The moment she saw Sawyer's number on her Caller ID (actually, the number came up as "Private," but blocked phone numbers were hard to keep secret from a master hacker), she set the voice scrambler and picked up. "Commissioner," she stated.

"Oracle," Sawyer replied tersely. "You know why I'm calling."

If the situation had been any less nerve-wracking, she might have smiled. The commissioner had a direct, cut-the-crap attitude that Barbara admired most of the time. It made her feel that she _could_ , for once, be honest and ditch the stoic act. She sighed—which sounded bizarre with the scrambler and, for a wild moment, she thought about switching it off. Then common sense won out. "Yes," she said. "How bad is it?"

"Don't you know?" Sawyer demanded.

"If I did," the scrambler had no trouble transmitting her irritation, "I wouldn't waste time asking. I monitor systems. Radio communications, satellites, traffic cams… Your radio silence—while understandable—means that I haven't got much more than what's been reported in the news at this hour. Going by that… Is there any assistance we can render?"

Sawyer seemed to consider her offer for a moment. "No," she said finally. "But thanks for asking. As far as the person you aren't asking about," she went on, "I wanted to wait until I had something definite to give you. But," she sighed, "if I was in your shoes, I'd probably be tearing my hair out by now wondering what was going on. So." Sawyer took a deep breath. "His injuries aren't serious. He's already made his own request to render assistance and, even though enlisting a cadet for this kind of investigation is highly irregular, I've already reminded Captain MacInnes that we'd be fools not to use his expertise."

This time, Barbara didn't care _how_ her sigh of relief sounded over the scrambler. "Thank you," she said. "And… I hope you know that the people I represent would be happy to help out even if they didn't have a colleague currently enrolled there."

"Yes, well…" Sawyer paused and when she spoke again, there was a glint of humor in her voice. " _He_ doesn't appreciate outside interference very often, regardless of its qualifications or intent."

"And you have no idea whatsoever how many times the rest of us have taken him to task for that attitude," she shot back. If anything, the voice scrambler only enhanced her already-exaggerated annoyance.

Sawyer laughed. "I'll keep you in the loop as much as I can."

"I'll extend the same courtesy, Commissioner. Oracle out."

Barbara hesitated for a moment before phoning Dick at work. He greeted her cheerfully and asked whether there were any new developments he needed to know about. He hadn't heard yet. She took a breath and braced for his reaction. "If you aren't sitting down already," she said quietly, "I think you'd better. There's been an attack at the academy…"

* * *

Someone was finally coming. For what felt like forever, Clara had been sitting against the barn wall next to the wooden double doors, trying to keep a lid on her fears. The noise had scared her. The odors of smoke and burning wood had done worse. She knew the barn wasn't burning; she'd be feeling a lot warmer if it were. Still, the smells had been strong enough to make her wonder whether the fire might spread to her location. She'd read a story once about a forest fire that had almost made her ill. Several animals had tried to find safety in a pond. The fire had spread to the surrounding trees and the heat had boiled the water, cooking the animals alive. Once she'd realized that there was a fire close by, she'd been curled up in a ball, hugging her knees, and wondering if something like that was about to happen to her. But the sirens she'd heard outside had stopped some distance away. And the smells were fainter than they'd been at first. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to them. At any rate, she wasn't afraid of burning now. But she was very much afraid of being discovered.

Whoever it was seemed to be fussing with the barn door and swearing a lot. Clara remembered something Bruno had told her during one of their sessions…

_Fear is your friend. It keeps you awake. It keeps you alert and on your toes. It stops you from charging into the thick of things and getting yourself killed. You need fear. Now, panic? That's something else. You never want panic. Panic paralyzes you. It makes you stupid. It makes you dangerous to all the wrong people—especially yourself. You stay calm, you keep your wits about you, you use your fear but keep it under control… and you just might be okay._

Clara took a deep breath. The door would be opening any second. She could see three options open to her. She could race out of the barn and hope she was fast enough not to get caught. She could hide and hope she wouldn't be discovered. She could stand where whoever was coming in would see her and try to come up with some story for how she'd ended up locked in the barn. She decided against the last option immediately. She'd had too many encounters with too many people she couldn't trust. Until she was back with Uncle Tony, she wasn't going to take a chance on anyone else. Running wasn't the greatest idea either. Whoever was coming in might be faster, might be stronger, might have a gun and not care if he shot a kid in the back…

Hide. She needed a place to hide. A place where she could get away fast if she were detected. Whoever was outside was still fussing with the lock—it sounded like they'd dropped the key. Like _he'd_ dropped the key, unless the person Clara was hearing cursing was a woman with a very deep voice. Wait. Did the doors open out or in? Where were the hinges? She dimly remembered an _Encyclopedia Brown_ mystery where Encyclopedia had solved the case and known that Bugs Meany was lying, because… _because Bugs had said that he was locked in a room and had thought about taking the door off its hinges, but the hinges were on the other side. And then he'd said that the door had opened_ inward _and a door_ always _opened on the side where the hinges were!_ These hinges were on the inside, so…

Clara got to her feet and pressed herself against the wall, so that the door would block her when it opened. _Think flat thoughts_ , she ordered herself. _Try to get as close to the wall as you can. And hope that door doesn't crush you when it opens!_

It didn't, but then, it was the other door that swung open. Clara froze as a heavyset figure who reeked of beer and stale cigarettes shambled into the barn. He took no notice of her, but moved directly to the truck and began fumbling with the rope holding down the tarp on the truck-bed. He was so preoccupied that he never noticed when Clara slowly edged her way to the open door and slipped out of the barn. She looked around in dismay. She had no idea where she was, but she had a feeling that she didn't want to be anywhere near the compound across the highway. There were too many cop cars and she had no idea whether any of the cops inside them worked for her uncle… or for the Mandragoras.

With a shudder, she began walking briskly along the highway, hoping she'd come to a road sign soon that would tell her where she was. Before she'd gotten too far, though, she saw a wooden barrier blocking the road with more police cars and officers surrounding it. Clara sucked in her breath and doubled back before they could spot her.

* * *

Dick was bracing himself for a fight when he drove the Batmobile up to the academy gates some four hours later. He'd been at the office since six that morning—patrol had run late and he'd been keyed up enough to decide that it was better to get to work directly than it was to go home, try to catch some sleep, be up less than two hours later, and try to get to work for nine, so that he could be done for five, so that he could start tonight's patrol around seven. At least, tomorrow was his night off.

When Babs had called, he'd wanted to go tearing over to the academy immediately. Three things had held him back: he didn't want Sal or Lucius to think that he was taking advantage of their generosity by leaving in the middle of his workday, Babs had let him know that the campus had been sealed, and Bruce could probably handle himself. Dick well remembered how mortified he'd been when he'd been injured in one of the few middle school basketball games Bruce had attended. It hadn't been serious. A twisted ankle that had stopped twinging in time for patrol that night. But Bruce had come barrelling out of the spectator stands in front of the whole crowd, demanding to know whether he was all right. The other kids had teased him about it for weeks afterwards. Something told him that if he went charging onto the academy campus now, Bruce would probably react in similar fashion. And really, Bruce probably didn't need anyone hovering over him.

Dick had thrown himself into his work, making sure that by the time he left at two, nobody could say he hadn't put forth his best efforts. By then, Barbara had let him know that, while academy security had been exponentially increased, they were allowing people in and out, now. "It's probably locking the henhouse after the fox has gone," Babs had admitted, "but, at least, you won't have to go breaking into the academy."

He'd been at the closest satellite Batcave at five past two. Ten minutes for a quick change—of clothes and car—and a cup of coffee, and he hit the Aparo Expressway northbound just after two-thirty. He really didn't care that Batman wasn't supposed to show his face during the day. He just wanted to get to the academy. Preferably, before he hit rush hour traffic.

He didn't hit traffic, but he did hit a roadblock less than a half-mile from the academy gates. He contemplated driving straight through it, but decided that it was worth it to at least _try_ to be civil. Especially when he realized that he recognized one of the officers standing before the barrier. He rolled down his window. "Officer Harper, isn't it?"

The woman in blue nodded and her expression softened for a moment. "Batman."

He sighed. "Look. I know you have your orders and I understand. Is there someone I can talk to about getting past this point?"

Harper shook her head. "No need. The commissioner notified us you'd probably be coming this way. You can go on through." As she spoke, Batman noticed that another officer behind her was moving the barrier aside.

"Thanks," he said.

Harper nodded. "You're welcome, Batman. I suppose we'll see you on your way out."

* * *

It was impossible not to notice the extra security as Dick drove the Batmobile slowly toward the academy parking lot. Knowing the reason for it, he didn't resent it. Besides, he was used to being under the microscope. He suspected that if Bruce and Barbara ever pooled their cameras, sensors, and other surveillance equipment, they could probably supply the FBI for the next six months. He'd just parked the Batmobile in the lot where the gate officer had directed him, when he saw an officer striding toward him. He got out of the car slowly, taking care that he made no sudden moves.

"Batman," the cop greeted him tersely.

Dick nodded. "Officer—?"

"Fochs," the cop returned. "Sergeant Guy Fochs."

"I appreciate your meeting me, Sergeant," Dick said. "Is there any way that I can help?"

Fochs seemed to relax. "That's for the captain to decide," he said politely, but firmly.

"I understand." Batman sighed. "And I can see why you'd want to keep this in-house. However, if there's any assistance I can offer…"

Fochs nodded. "Again, that'll be the captain's decision. Of course," his expressionless façade lifted for a moment, "it would appear that keeping things in-house doesn't necessarily preclude the assistance your outfit is able to offer. It just needs to be coming from the right person. If you take my meaning."

"Oh, I do," Batman smiled. "I do."

A brief answering smile flickered on Fochs's lips. Then his impassive demeanor returned. "If you'll follow me, sir," he directed, "I'll escort you to Captain MacInnes."

* * *

The infirmary was smaller than the Thompkins clinic had been, but larger than the main Cave's medical bay. Dick found Bruce sitting on a bench in a corridor outside one of the rooms. The door was closed.

"Hey," Dick said, as he approached. He didn't mention the bandage wrapped around Bruce's head. If Bruce was sitting in the hallway instead of lying in a bed in one of these rooms, then it wasn't serious and Bruce didn't like it when people fussed.

Bruce looked up. "Batman," he said flatly. Dick's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't so much how Bruce had addressed him. He was in costume, after all. Rather, he was surprised that Bruce had acknowledged him at all. Coming from Bruce, a one-word greeting was almost effusive. "Barbara told you," he stated.

Dick nodded. "Sawyer's not saying much, but she at least let us know that you were okay."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Norton is in there."

The name meant nothing to him. "Friend of yours?" he guessed.

For a moment, Bruce didn't respond. Then he gave a hesitant nod. "I… suppose he is," he said in a tone that indicated the idea had never occurred to him before.

Dick put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce squeezed it. "I've just come from Captain MacInnes's office," he said. "There's going to be a briefing in half an hour. He wants us both there. Or," he added with an ironic smile when Bruce frowned, "Sawyer does, anyway."

Bruce snorted mirthlessly. "That, I'll believe."

"You ask me," Dick said, "the captain's acting a lot like you would if Superman told you to do something you were already planning on doing in the first place. It's not that he doesn't want us, it's that he resents being ordered. And," he sighed, "while that might be his problem, it might just become ours, too."

Bruce nodded slowly. "A half hour," he said.

"Yeah. He asked me to deliver the message, since I was looking for you anyway, but if you need to hear it from him—"

"No," Bruce said, shaking his head. He took a deep breath. "Let's go, then. Sitting here isn't helping anyone—least of all, Norton."

Dick nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"You're doing it," Bruce said, gripping his arm. "Come."

* * *

Inzerillo had been waiting for the call since early morning. When his phone finally went off, he grabbed it before the first ring finished. "Yeah?"

"Enrico." Halloran's voice was flat, disclosing nothing.

"Yes."

"I presume that you were behind a tragic occurrence at the Gotham City Police Academy earlier today?"

Inzerillo smiled. "It's possible I might have had something to do with it. Just acting on instructions, of course."

"I'm sure you thought you were," Halloran allowed.

Inzerillo tensed. "Mr. Halloran," he said quickly, "I hope you're not going to reward my assistance by throwing me to the cops as some sort of sacrificial offering. After what I've done for you…"

"You've done _nothing_ for us," Halloran snapped. "The man you targeted is alive and unharmed, apart from some minor, superficial injuries."

"Wh-what?"

"It seems that whoever you engaged to get the job done set things in motion a trifle too soon. Wayne lives."

Inzerillo realized that his hand was starting to sweat around the phone. "So… so we'll try again. There's time. I can…"

Halloran sighed. "I think you've done enough," he said. "You see, Intergang has a number of MPD officers on its payroll—in much the same way that your various Gotham factions have made inroads with the GCPD. Naturally, these men are discreet about their allegiances. They keep them secret from friends, spouses, and… other family members."

Still holding the phone, Inzerillo frowned. There was a connection that Halloran seemed to be wanting him to make, but he just couldn't see it. "I… I don't understand."

Halloran gave another long-suffering sigh. "Perhaps you don't, at that. Very well. I'd like to tell you a story about a young man growing up in a rural community on the outskirts of Gotham. Nice guy, works with horse rescues, enjoys riding. He especially enjoys riding with his cousin—another nice guy, some ten years his senior. He and this cousin are practically like brothers—and I'm not talking Cain and Abel, either. The fact that the one lives in Metropolis and the other right outside Gotham, well the distance doesn't mean very much these days, what with cheap long distance calling plans, email, Skrype… you get the picture. So, when the cousin eventually decides to apply to the Metropolis Police Academy, let's say that it serves as an inspiration to our young man and he decides to give the GCPA a try, once he's old enough. So, he starts making plans, doing his research, taking the right courses and extra-curriculars. And when he finds out that they have riding stables, well… that clinches it."

"I see," Inzerillo said slowly, hoping that the sick feeling in his stomach was unwarranted.

"Now, what our young man doesn't know is that the cousin? Not quite the golden boy, after all. He falls in with Intergang barely out of the academy and rises through our ranks. And when we start planning our Gotham initiative, he starts getting excited. By now, he's got a fair amount of influence. He's been a great help to us in getting our people where they need to get and passing on good intel. We like this cousin. And he asked us to take extra care that Cadet Peter Norton doesn't get hurt in any of this." He paused for a beat. "He was in the stable you had firebombed this morning and our most recent intel has him in critical condition."

Inzerillo nearly dropped the phone. "Y-you could've warned me about that," he stammered. "I could've had my people take precautions. But in these situations… Wait." He fought the mounting wave of horror that threatened to engulf him. "You know all about what can go wrong in these situations," Pure rage suffused him. That's why you had _me_ do your dirty work. Plausible deniability in case things don't go according to plan. Y-you set me up!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, "It was your plan. It was your responsibility. And now, it's on your head." The call terminated.

Inzerillo screamed an expletive as he flung his phone across the room. It bounced off of his plate glass window and hit the marble floor with an ominous crack. When he looked where it had landed, he saw that it had shattered into at least a dozen pieces.

* * *

Clara had walked back and forth along the stretch of highway between the roadblocks several times in the last few hours. They were still up. A couple of officers had seen her. One had even smiled. She imagined that they thought she lived on one of the farms in the vicinity. She still wasn't sure what would happen if she tried to get past them. And if they recognized her, then it really depended. If they were Uncle Tony's people, she'd be safe. But if they were anyone else, she didn't know. She might be a kid, but she was also a Bressi. And if these cops got it into their heads that she might know something about her great uncle's business, she'd heard stories of police brutality. She'd read an exposé on kids getting beaten up in police custody or in juvie. Or tried to, anyway. Aunt Nadia had taken the paper away before she'd quite finished it. And even if that didn't happen to her, if the police thought she was holding back, she might well end up in juvie. Or in some foster home—she'd read horror stories about some of those, too. True, there were probably good ones, like that Starlight House on the old Jem cartoons, but it wasn't like she'd get to pick where she ended up if that was what they decided to do with her.

Clara sighed when she realized that she was passing the barn she'd run off from again. Then she froze. Someone was coming out of the barn now. She couldn't let him see her. She cast about looking for somewhere to hide and spied a number of boards nailed horizontally against a tree trunk. Looking up, she could see a treehouse up in the branches. She hoped it was sturdy and secure in the tree as she scrambled up the makeshift ladder.

* * *

Barbara felt a twinge of dismay when she recognized the number on her Caller ID. "Don Bressi," she said, glad that the electronic scrambler didn't relay her trepidation.

"Have you people found anything else?"

Barbara was silent for a moment. "Regrettably, no. It was easy enough to determine the model and make of the tires that made the track, but once the car hit the highway, we couldn't follow the trail. We're still looking."

She could hear Bressi's breathing over the phone line. His silence lasted longer than hers. "All right," he said finally.

"Don Bressi?"

The mobster sighed. "I think I understand you people. Whatever you might think of the way I conduct my business dealings, you wouldn't hold a twelve-year-old girl accountable. I believe that you're doing all you can to find her and I'm not faulting your efforts. However, the fact remains that my great-niece is out there somewhere. I pray she's alive, but we both know that the odds of her staying that way decrease every hour she's missing. I can't wait much longer. If Clara doesn't turn up by midnight tonight, I'm going to have to take some steps of my own. You can back me… or we can part ways. If it's the latter, I'll live with those consequences. That gives you… just under eight hours. So, if there are any stones you haven't turned over looking for her, now's the time. Otherwise, once midnight passes, so does any chance at a peaceful resolution."

"Don Br—" Barbara broke off from what she had been about to say as the call terminated. She took a gulp of coffee, wishing for a moment that it was something colder—and about 150 proof. "Damn," she whispered, staring at her blank call display. "Damn it to Hell."

* * *

Concealed in the treehouse, Clara thought that she was swaying with the faintest breeze as her every movement seemed to make the structure creak. After a time, though, she realized that she didn't seem to be in any danger of plunging to the ground. The little wooden shack was, apparently, a bit sturdier than it looked. Lifting her head, she examined her surroundings. There was a beanbag chair, too dusty and grimy for her to contemplate sinking into. A rope hammock stretched against one of the short walls of the rectangular room. _Maybe,_ Clara thought, _the house had always rocked. Weren't hammocks used on old ships, because sailors could fall out of beds on rough seas?_ There was card table with its legs folded beneath it and four folding chairs stacked alongside. And, apart from a scenic calendar from 1989 and some faded posters of heavily made-up teens in horrible clothes—maybe also from the 80s, there was nothing else in the treehouse.

Clara moved carefully to the window, trying to ignore the creaking and swaying. From here, she had a good view of the compound across the street. It was still full of cop cars and there were plenty of people checking out the collapsed building by the fence. Even from her vantage point, she could make out charred timbers. The smoky smell seemed to hit her again, almost full force.

She could see a good deal more of the compound at this height. She hadn't realized that there were so many buildings. There was also a good-sized parking lot with a number of cars inside. And fields, both green and muddy. And…

Clara's eyes snapped back to the parking lot. All at once, she smiled. She recognized the sleek black car with metal fins that rose behind, framing the trunk and a stylized bat on the hood. And, while she might not know which cops were safe to trust, Batman was definitely on her side. He could get her back to Uncle Tony.

She made her way to the trap door in the floor through which she'd entered the treehouse and gasped. Seeing a panorama through a window was _very_ different from seeing the ground directly below. If she lost her footing on the way down…

Clara sucked in her breath and hugged herself. She was going to have to get down sooner or later. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody would think to look for her here. She could stay until she starved—or was so hungry she wouldn't be able to concentrate on getting down… or she could climb. And if she didn't climb soon, the Batmobile was going to leave.

That last thought decided her. She closed her eyes, thought a quick prayer, and carefully lowered herself partially through the trap door, planting the toes of her sneakers firmly on one of the thick wooden boards of the makeshift ladder. Gripping the edge of the treehouse floor in both hands, she lifted one foot and lowered it, feeling for the next rung down. She exhaled her relief when she found it. It occurred to her that she didn't need her eyes for this. All she had to do was hold tight and keep feeling for the next step until she reached bottom.

Yes, it would probably be better if she kept her eyes closed for the descent, so she wouldn't know how far away the ground was until it wasn't anymore.

She screwed her eyes shut and lifted her foot once more.

* * *

"Well?" MacInnes snapped, almost as soon as he'd arrived on the scene. Bruce immediately snapped to attention. From out the corner of his eye, he saw that Dick had done the same. It didn't look ridiculous in the Bat-suit. Bruce filed the observation away for future reference.

"Thermite, Captain," Bruce reported tersely. "Set off with a sparkler, from the look of it."

MacInnes had been nodding as Bruce started speaking. Now he frowned. "You're sure?"

For answer, Batman held up a plastic evidence bag with a slender charred stick. "I know your people will want to do their own analysis, but I think it'll bear out Cadet Wayne's findings."

MacInnes grunted. "CSI is ready to move in," he snapped. "Cadet Wayne, you're ordered to render them whatever assistance they think necessary. Batman, I'll request the same from you." His stern expression relaxed for a moment. "Docs say Norton's going to pull through," he added softly. "Figured you'd want to know."

A slow smile spread Bruce's lips. "Thank you, Sir," he replied formally.

MacInnes gave him a curt nod. "I'll expect a copy of your report on my desk by seventeen hundred hours tomorrow," he returned. Then he motioned to a small knot of onlookers in street clothes who were patiently waiting, their instruments in hand.

* * *

Clara knew better than to try to talk to the guard at the front gate. If a nightclub bouncer wouldn't give her the time of day or pass on a message, she doubted the cop in the glass booth would be any friendlier. In her mind, he looked like the bouncer at the Iceberg: clean-shaven, beefy, built like Gorilla Grodd and probably about as hairy under his uniform. Maybe not as bright, though. Pleading her case to him would be a waste of breath. Or worse, if he was working for the Mandragoras or one of their allies.

The hole in the fence was also out. She wasn't going anywhere near all of those guys with flashlights or Geiger counters or whatever that gear was supposed to be. Tricorders, maybe? Her eyes widened. Batman was there with them. Maybe she could risk it. _Or on second thought…_ Clara smiled. Batman wasn't going to leave the area without his car. All she had to do was get to the parking lot and wait.

She was over the fence and climbing down to the grassy lawn, when she heard a loud voice cry out, "Halt! Stay right there and don't move!" For a moment, she froze. Then she dropped the last three feet to the ground, landed solidly, and started running. "Halt!" the voice ordered. "Stop or I _will_ fire!" Clara raced around the corner of a building. If she could just lose this guy long enough, she could find a place to hide until he gave up. She just had to keep moving until she did.

There came a noise, incredibly loud, incredibly close. It sounded like it might be another explosion. Then she felt a searing pain in her shoulder and she stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. She tried to get up again, but she was exhausted and her shoulder was on fire and… and there was blood and she had a feeling it was hers. She closed her eyes and lay there, her breath coming in ragged gasps and whimpers.

Running footsteps approached. "Intruder appears to be down," a gruff voice said in clipped tones. The footsteps drew closer and then stopped. Someone sucked in his breath. "No! No, no, no... Sarge! I need a medical team here now! It's just a kid! I shot a kid!"

And then the person was beside her, whispering, "Hold on, kid. Help is coming. Just hang on till it gets here. Hang on…"

She wanted to. She really did. But she was so tired and it was getting harder to focus…


	54. 53: The Trains that Roll, the Sound Time Makes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a reminder: This fic is set pre-New 52 and pre-Rebirth. While Birds of Prey has revealed that Maria Bertinelli survived the attack that took the lives of her husband and son, I'm going with the post-CoIE version that left Helena an orphan at the age of eight.
> 
> "The Blue Distance" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her "The Things that We Are Made Of" album (Universal, 2016).
> 
> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

_Across the railroad tracks, down the gravel road_   
_headlights throw a beam on the way back home_   
_lie down, lie down, listen wide awake_   
_to the trains that roll, to the sound time makes_

— _Mary Chapin Carpenter, "The Blue Distance"_

 

**Chapter 53—The Trains that Roll, The Sound Time Makes**

MacInnes waited until Clara Bressi had been borne away to the infirmary on a stretcher before he approached the officer who had pulled the trigger. "Sergeant Arneson," he said in a deceptively calm voice. "Mind telling me what just happened?"

Arneson swallowed hard. "Captain," he replied, "I spotted the intruder from afar. She disregarded my order to halt. I pursued on foot."

"You shot a kid from behind."

Arneson swallowed again. "Captain, we were attacked this morning by person or persons unknown. I did not get a clear look at the intruder and didn't realize that she was a child. When she fled the scene, I suspected that she might have been involved in the earlier attack."

MacInnes's expression did not waver. "I'll need your gun, Sergeant. Report to room 412 in the Administration building; an investigator is waiting with your union rep to ask you some questions." He hesitated. "This is the first time you've pulled the trigger outside of a firing range, correct?" The sergeant nodded as he relinquished his firearm. Now, MacInnes's face softened. "I have some idea what you're going through. As will anyone who's been in your situation."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed. Oh, Sergeant?" MacInnes added quickly. "Just a reminder. If your rep isn't present, you don't have to answer any questions until they get there."

Arneson nodded. "Yes, sir."

As the sergeant took off in the direction of the Administration building, MacInnes shook his head and scowled. Yes, they were on high alert. Yes, they had just suffered an attack that had left four cadets injured—one seriously—and left two horses dead at the scene and a third that the vet had had to put down. But one of his officers had just shot a twelve-year-old girl from behind. Regardless of the circumstances, the media was going to be all over this one.

His cell phone rang and he slapped it to his ear. "MacInness."

"Captain, I think we have an ID on the shooting victim…"

* * *

He was sprinting toward the infirmary almost as soon as the caller was finished delivering her bombshell. His route took him past the cordoned-off bomb site and he veered toward it. "Batman," he snapped. "I need a word."

Under his cowl, where the captain couldn't see it, Dick Grayson raised an eyebrow. "Of course, Captain," he said politely. "How can I assist?"

MacInnes hesitated for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. "We had an intruder a short while ago. She was spotted almost immediately and one of my people pursued after she disregarded a command to stand where she was. With everything that's happened this morning, I believe my officer when he tells me that he didn't realize that he was chasing a kid."

"A kid," Batman repeated flatly.

"About five-two, so perhaps my man can be excused for not realizing he was pursuing a twelve-year-old girl, rather than an adult of below-average height. He's being interviewed by IA right now, as it happens. We don't have all the details, yet, but from what we do know…" His voice trailed off.

Batman tensed. "Go on."

MacInnes let out a long breath. "After the girl ignored multiple warnings, the sergeant fired on her."

"I see," Batman replied. "Captain, I… I realize that confession is said to be good for the soul, but is there some… some reason that you're telling me this now?"

"Yes," MacInnes said heavily. "We… got an ID on her. She's going to be okay, by the way. It's a flesh wound. Bullet passed through her upper arm; nicked the bone on its way. Painful, but not life-threatening, thankfully. However, it occurs to me that you might be the best person to advise the family of what's happened. Frankly, we can deal with the media fallout from an officer shooting a kid. It's a tragic turn of events, and we're already starting a full investigation into the circumstances. But the media is not our biggest worry, as it happens."

As he listened, Batman felt the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. "Who's the kid, Captain?"

"Clara Bressi. Now how do we stop the lid from blowing off of _this_ powder keg?"

Batman took a deep breath and let it out. "I'd like to see her," he said. "Not that I don't believe you, but the girl has been missing for almost three days. There are a lot of people out looking for her. And before I call her uncle and tell her that we've got her and we're bringing her home, I want to be absolutely positive we're not dealing with a case of mistaken identity."

"I'm just on my way to the infirmary now," MacInnes nodded. "You're welcome to accompany me."

Batman nodded back and fell into step behind him. "Actually, Captain," he said, "as much as we don't want things getting out of hand, if we're about to question a minor—however gently—don't you think we need to get in touch with her family first?"

MacInnes exhaled heavily. "You're right. I'd better make the call. After I let Sawyer know what's up."

* * *

Clara kept her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. It wasn't hard. The hard part was actually _not_ falling asleep. They'd patched up her arm and, while it still hurt a great deal, it was better than it had been. She focused on that pain now and tried to keep from dozing off. She wasn't safe. Until she was back with her uncle, she wouldn't be safe. And she couldn't trust anybody but Batman to get her back.

Which meant that, as tired as she was, as much as she just wanted to rest like the man who'd treated her had told her to do (he'd seemed nice, but that didn't necessarily prove anything), she had to get up and get moving.

She slowly eased herself off of the cot and managed not to whimper as a sharper twinge of pain shot through her arm. This place was crawling with cops and she didn't know how many of them were owned by the Mandragoras. She walked carefully to the window, looked outside and smiled. Maybe there was a way out of here after all…

…If she could just make it about a hundred yards without being spotted.

* * *

"Why was there no guard posted outside the room?" MacInnes demanded.

"For a kid?" the officer replied incredulously. "…Sir?" he added when MacInnes—and the muscular man in the dark suit and sunglasses glowered.

"My employer will be rather… unhappy with this turn of events," the newcomer said with deceptive calm.

"We share his unhappiness, Mr. Vitrelli," MacInnes snapped.

"You should."

Batman's raised both hands in a placating gesture. "There's a lot of excitement happening inside campus right now, gentlemen," he interjected. "I don't think anyone seriously thought that one scared, wounded, twelve-year-old was going to try sneaking out of the infirmary." He sighed. "Although, I guess I probably shouldn't be that surprised." He turned to Vitrelli. "She slipped past your employer's security, got kidnapped by the Mandragoras, escaped from his people, and managed to stay out of their hands for over a day. Then, as near as we can tell, someone else picked her up, she got away from _them_ , and turned up here. She's been either locked up or on the run for the better part of three days. At this point, I'll bet that there aren't a lot of people she thinks she can trust."

"So, she's not going to stay in any one place for very long," MacInnes grunted. "Still… she shouldn't have been able to leave the infirmary."

"From what I've gathered," Batman sighed, "she's plenty resourceful. And desperation lets a person manage some pretty incredible things. Trust me on this one," he added, shaking his head. "Anyway," a slow smile came to his lips, "I don't think she could have gotten far. Are the roadblocks still up?"

MacInnes nodded.

"Have any vehicles gotten in or out in the last half-hour or so?"

MacInnes frowned, thinking. "We ordered pizza for everyone here. The truck…" He strode briskly to the window and muttered an expletive under his breath. "It must have just left." He grabbed his phone, hit a button, and barked several orders into the mouthpiece.

"If she stowed away in that, we'll catch it. Meanwhile," he sighed, "we're going to scour every square inch of this campus in case she's hiding somewhere. I trust we can count on your assistance?"

Batman's lips twitched. "Naturally, Captain. Oh, Captain," he added, smiling a bit more, "I think you might want to verify whether any of the cadets have search-and-rescue training. It could be worthwhile to make use of it. Mr. Vitrelli," he turned to the man Bressi had sent in response to MacInnes's phone call. "Have you ever met Clara Bressi? Would she recognize you?"

The lawyer shook his head slowly.

"Too bad," Batman sighed. "I was hoping that, if she were still here and spotted you, she'd know you for someone she could trust. At least enough for her to come out of hiding. I guess we can't count on that."

Vitrelli hesitated. "I'd like to help with the search regardless," he said. "At least, let's just say that when I contact Mr. Bressi, I'd prefer to be able to give him some _good_ news."

MacInnes regarded the two men for a moment, his gaze inscrutable. Then he blew his breath out noisily and nodded.

* * *

Oracle recognized the number on her caller ID and fought the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she turned on the voice scrambler. "Don Bressi," she greeted him.

"Is there any news?" he demanded, skipping to the chase.

She sighed. "We're still searching," she admitted. "As soon as we hear something—"

" _I've_ heard something," Bressi cut her short. "I was hoping you could confirm its veracity."

"Go ahead."

Bressi's voice was almost too calm. "I've received a telephone call notifying me that a young girl was shot on the grounds of the police academy this afternoon. There's reason to believe that it was my grand-niece. I sent one of my people there to check it out and he hasn't called me, yet. Which leads me to believe that it was either a case of mistaken identity, or she's making the GCPD look like the Keystone Kops—and I'm not talking the ones that the Flash works with— _or_ things are more serious than that phone call let on and my man is still trying to figure out a way to break it to me."

Was it possible for that sinking feeling to drop _below_ her stomach? Because, as much as she'd had no sensation from the waist down in years, she thought she could feel _that_. "I haven't heard anything like that," she said. "But the academy has been on lockdown since early this morning and they're still keeping quiet about the reasons."

"But you do know those reasons."

"I monitor radio frequencies," Oracle explained. "They're not using them."

Bressi considered that. "All right. Maybe you're telling me the truth. I can't tell with that robot voice you're using, but let's just say for the sake of argument that I accept what you're saying. In that case, I'm sorry to have bothered you. You keep looking for her and," his voice faltered for a moment, "let's just pray we have some good news by midnight." The connection closed with a click.

Barbara sucked in her breath and fought down a wave of anger. She _hated_ it when other people got their hands on this kind of intel before she did. And she was already thinking of the repercussions if Bressi's information was good.

She took another deep breath and tried raising Dick on the radio. When he didn't respond, she set about trying to find something online that would either substantiate or refute what Bressi had told her, muttering curses under her breath as her fingers played over her keyboards.

* * *

"That's what it looks like," Dick spoke tersely into the cowl radio. Sorry for the delay in checking in. I didn't want to tell you until I had something definite, but I guess you could argue that if a wounded twelve-year-old managed to break out a police infirmary and possibly depart campus without being spotted… she's either the mob princess who's been giving seasoned killers the slip for the last few days… or someone in this city has a new kid sidekick and hasn't told us."

Next to him, looking surprisingly comfortable in the uniform of an academy cadet, Bruce frowned and jerked his head toward a thickset figure who was striding down the hallway toward them. Dick sighed. "I know. Look, I see MacInnes coming back. Technically, we're still under radio silence and I'd rather not rub his face in the fact that it doesn't apply to me. Love you, too. Later."

He turned to Bruce. "Guess you heard."

Bruce didn't reply. Instead, he snapped to attention as MacInnes drew closer. Dick didn't exactly follow suit, but he did stand a bit straighter. "From the look on your face," Dick said, keeping the gravel in his voice to a minimum, "I gather the news isn't what we were hoping, but it could still be worse."

MacInnes let off a short, barking laugh. "That's an optimistic way of putting it. You sure you're the Bat?"

Out the corner of his eye, Dick tried to gauge Bruce's reaction, but the other man's poker face was firmly in place. "For the time being," he replied. "What can you tell me?"

"Well," MacInnes grunted, "we caught up with the truck about a quarter mile past our roadblock. No kid. However, the driver let us know she'd had to stop at the railway crossing when the barrier came down. When we checked the back of the truck, we found some shoe prints, don't match what the driver was wearing. Truck's back here now; we're going to let CSI go over it now that they're just about done with the stable, but it looks like she's on the run again." He shook his head. "Guess we'd better cordon off the area and start searching." He looked from Dick to Bruce. "If either of you have any suggestions, now's the time."

Bruce lifted his head slightly. "Captain."

"Cadet?"

"Are any of the horses in fit condition to be ridden, Sir?"

MacInnes thought for a moment. "I'll need to confirm that, but I believe so. Why?"

"Captain," Bruce said again, "a horse can go where a car can't. If there's one thing that's been made clear, it's that the girl knows how to evade pursuit. She won't be moving along the roads. Parallel to them, perhaps; she's trying to get to her uncle and she has to know that she's got two possible ways into Gotham: take the Bristol Township Line Road east to the Kane Bridge or west to the Mooney and then follow the Airport Road south to the New Trigate bridge, or even the Vorfinkel."

"She wouldn't go that far out of the way," MacInnes protested. "Not on foot."

"Normally, Sir," Bruce said, "I'd agree. But she's aware that we—or, more to the point, the Mandragoras—know where she's going. She can't outrun them; not unless she keeps hitching rides on various vehicles and that gets riskier for her the more people are looking for her. Her best play is to go by ways they won't expect. If the fastest way back to her uncle is over the Kane Bridge, I suspect she'll be aiming for the Mooney."

"Go on," MacInnes prompted.

"My guess," Bruce warmed to his subject, "is that she'll be following the road west, keeping as much out of sight as possible. That means behind the false front of trees that separates the highway from the farmland. I'm presuming that those vacant lots that were strung out along the road three years ago are still undeveloped?"

"Mostly," MacInnes nodded.

"That means tall grasses, shrubbery… In all likelihood, she'll have enough cover to avoid detection from the road. A mounted search and rescue would be a different story."

MacInnes was silent for a moment. He appeared to be chewing the inside of his lower lip. Finally, he nodded. "I'll see about those horses, Cadet. Meanwhile, you and the Bat go over the infirmary with whatever cutting edge tech you have that outdoes our fine-tooth combs. See if you can find something we missed."

He strode away before Bruce finished saying his 'Sir, yes, Sir.'

* * *

Bruce and Dick had barely begun checking out the infirmary, when MacInnes returned. Both men were stooping to examine the floor by Clara's cot, but they immediately stopped what they were doing and rose to their feet at his approach. "You're in luck, Cadet," he rumbled. "We've got four horses fit for riding. In case Captain Alanguilan didn't tell you when he started training you, every mount we've got is trained for search-and-rescue; it's part of the reason we keep them around." He smiled thinly. "Captain Alanguilan will be taking one and he and his partner will be going east. Since you're so sure that the Bressi girl's going west, I'll let you check in that direction. Any of your fellow cadets up to the task?"

Bruce considered. "There were four of us training. At this point, I think we're _all_ up to the task." His voice lowered slightly. "Cadet Norton is a better rider than the rest of us and if he were able, he'd be my choice."

"Diplomatic, Cadet, but I'd like to know who you'd prefer accompanying you: Brenner or Parsons."

Bruce frowned. "Parsons is a stronger rider, but I've worked with Brenner extensively. I'm more familiar with his thinking and how he's likely to act in the field. Since you want to keep this a police matter," his eyes flicked meaningfully toward Dick, who gave a half-smile that made him wince—it just looked _wrong_ in the cowl—"Brenner's my choice."

"Noted," MacInnes nodded. "I'll tell Alanguilan to take Parsons with him, then." His lips twitched. "There _are_ four horses, after all. And this _is_ exactly the kind of thing we have them for. I'll have Brenner meet you by what's left of the stables. Captain Alanguilan will bring the mounts."

"Yes, sir," Bruce snapped, betraying neither surprise nor pleasure.

"Right," MacInnes barked. "Dismissed. Get going, Cadet. Batman, a word."

Already headed for the door, Bruce started to turn back automatically. Then he caught himself, suppressed a mental sigh, and walked off in the direction of the stables.

* * *

Clara waited until the four cars sped past before she cautiously broke through the tree cover and approached the road sign. "Mooney Bridge, five miles," she read aloud. She tried not to wince. Her arm was killing her and she was sure she had a pebble in her shoe, but getting it out would involve using that arm or, at least, the hand attached to it. She was doing her best not to use that arm; she got a fresh jolt of pain every time her best wasn't good enough. She'd been dealing with the pebble until now, but… five _miles_? And then how much longer before she found a way back to Gotham?

She was closer now than she had been a day ago, she reminded herself fiercely. She knew this area. Sort of. She'd been up here with her dad a few weeks ago checking out the private schools. There were a whole bunch of them: Brentwood, Cooke, Gotham Academy… Even Gotham Heights Public School had a better rep than the schools in Gotham City proper.

Thinking about her dad brought tears to her eyes. She couldn't believe that he was gone. Six weeks ago, they'd been looking at schools and now… Now, she had to keep moving. If she stopped, she might not have the strength to start again. She needed to get back to Uncle Tony. She wanted her own room, where she could sleep or cry or punch something. She wanted someone to fuss over her, even if she normally hated that crap. She was alone, she was scared, she was hurt and tired and hungry and she wanted… Well, she wanted her parents, but since that wasn't going to happen, she wanted Luka and Uncle Tony and Aunt Nadia. She wanted someone to treat her like a kid again, and this time, she wouldn't try to pretend she was too tough for that. She just wanted to go home.

She heard a noise in the distance that rapidly grew louder and, without taking time to see what it was, she bolted back into the trees, sucking in her breath as she felt another twinge in her arm.

* * *

Bruce and Cadet Brenner rode down the Bristol Township Line Road. "How's the collarbone, Sir?" Brenner asked.

Bruce let the silence stretch out for a minute before he relented. "It would hurt more if I hadn't studied pain control techniques in the past. I'm managing. And you?"

"Me?" Brenner shrugged. "I'm still sore all over, but I'll live." He laughed suddenly. "I'm not sure," he added with a grin in his voice, "but I think Taupe thinks he's a hunting dog now."

Bruce's lips twitched. "He's a search-and-rescue horse," he commented. "As is Schilling. Their senses are keener than ours and they're likely to recognize when something is 'off' before we will. Pay attention to them and look where they look."

"Yes, Squad Leader," Brenner said, all joking gone from his tone. "Sir?"

"Brenner."

Brenner swallowed. "Just a thought, Squad Leader. I've a niece about the girl's age and I know that if she were near a horse, she'd be running up to pet him and offer him an apple. Maybe letting one of our mounts go graze in a field…"

Bruce shook his head. "I think she's a little too scared and a little too wary for that right now. She knows that there are people looking to either kill her or use her as leverage against her great uncle. She's been in the wind this long by keeping her guard up and being ready to run at a moment's notice. She won't break cover to fawn over a horse."

"It was just a thought, sir."

Bruce nodded. "A different child, a different situation, and it would probably be a good one. But not now— _Whoa!_ " Although he didn't raise his voice in the slightest, his sudden command stopped both horses at once.

"Sir?"

"Keep your voice down, Brenner," Bruce snapped. "Look at your mount."

Brenner frowned. "I don't..."

"Ears are forward, nostrils flared… They've spotted something." He pointed toward the wooded lot on the south side of the road. "This way. Come on!"

They hadn't gone far into the trees, when Brenner caught his attention with a whispered "Sir?"

Bruce halted Schilling and waited for Brenner and Taupe to pull up alongside. "What is it?"

For answer, Brenner dismounted, walked several steps back, stooped, and picked up a small leather object. "A wallet, Squad Leader," he replied. He opened it while he was speaking and pulled out a school ID. "Well, it's the Bressi girl's, all right," he said. "She must have dropped it on the run."

Bruce nodded. "She can't be much farther now, but these trees are thick. I think we'll do better if we proceed on foot. Keep a grip on Taupe's reins. And don't forget: look where he looks." He frowned. "I make it less than an hour to dusk and his night vision is better than ours."

Brenner nodded. "Sir, yes, sir."

* * *

Clara crouched in the tall grass and willed herself not to move. She was trembling, whether with cold or fear she no longer knew. She was itchy and grungy and she hadn't had a shower in three days. They'd had to cut her shirt off to get at the bullet wound. In its place, she'd been given a blue button-down blouse that was several sizes too big and looked like it was part of a police uniform. Probably was. The guy who'd given it to her had mentioned that he thought a sweatshirt would be too hard for her to put on with an injured arm, but she wished he'd tried anyway. She was freezing. She wished she knew what had happened to her jacket. At least she wasn't in a hospital gown; she still had her jeans.

She couldn't hear much over the pounding of her heart. The hoof-beats she'd heard in the distance had stopped close by, but they hadn't started up again. Instead, she'd heard the rustle of grass and leaves and realized that they were coming closer. _Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me_ , she pleaded mentally. She knew she should try to get away but if she moved now, they'd hear her. She couldn't move fast in these weeds and grasses anyway; when she'd been on her feet, they'd come up past her waist.

She realized that it had suddenly gone very quiet and she wondered whether they'd actually given up and moved on. _I'll just count to ten_ , she told herself, _and then I'll get up and see. No. Twenty._ She gave it thirty. Then, slowly, painfully, she half raised herself, bracing her weight on her good arm and cautiously tried to peer over the grass stalks.

A bright light pierced her eyes and she stifled a scream.

* * *

Brenner sucked in his breath as the horses' ears flicked nervously back and forth. Only Bruce appeared unstartled. Brenner recovered quickly, though. "You're Clara, aren't you?" he asked softly. "Clara Bressi?"

For answer, Clara struggled to her feet and tried to run, but the grass was too high. Her foot sank into a depression and she almost twisted her ankle. Still, she managed a few steps before she seemed to realize it was futile. She stopped, shaking, her back to them. Her shoulders heaved as she nodded.

"I'm Bruce," Bruce introduced himself. "This is Chuck."

"Cops," Clara said flatly.

"Cadets, actually," Brenner corrected.

She turned slightly, so that she was half-facing them. "What, like West Point or something?" It was hard to tell whether she was sniffing or sniffling. Bruce reached into his pocket for a packet of tissues and held it out to her. She looked at it warily, but made no move to draw close to take one.

"Police academy cadets," Brenner replied.

Clara sighed. "Guess that explains what all those cops were doing there," she muttered.

Bruce shoved the tissues back into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone. "Your uncle is tearing the city apart looking for you," he said, his voice low, as though he were trying to soothe a skittish horse. He flipped the phone open and unlocked it. "Would you like to call him to let him know you're all right?"

Clara hesitated. "Put the phone down," she instructed. "And move back. Both of you."

"Clara," Brenner started to say.

"I'm not coming any closer to you unless my uncle says I can trust you. You want me to call him, then put the phone down and move back ten steps each. And not baby steps," she added belatedly.

In the fading daylight, Brenner saw Bruce's lips twitch. "Sensible," he said, with a hint of a smile in his voice. He rested the phone carefully on the tips of the high grass blades. "Careful you don't let it drop. It won't be easy to find again."

He jerked his head toward Brenner. "Ten steps," he murmured. "Would you like us to lead the horses back, too?"

Clara thought about that for a moment. "No," she decided. "They can stay."

Bruce nodded. "Your uncle will probably need our names," he said, walking backward the requisite ten steps with Chuck keeping pace beside him. "This is Cadet Charles Brenner. I'm Cadet Bruce Wayne."

The names meant nothing to her, but at least they were short and easy to remember. "Got it," Clara nodded. "Stay back. You take one step closer and I run. With your open phone. And all your contacts and information."

Brenner made a strangled noise. Bruce's lips twitched again. "Understood. Go ahead and make the call. We'll wait."

For several long seconds, the only sounds that could be heard were the slow breaths of men, girl, and horses, the chirping of spring peeper frogs, and the electronic beeps as Clara punched Tony Bressi's private telephone number into the phone. Then, "Uncle Tony?"

A moment later, Clara was smiling as tears coursed down her cheeks. "Yes, I'm okay. I mean, I will be. I mean… I'm in Bristol. No, not alone. A couple of cadets from the police academy found me. I wanted to make sure it was safe to go back with them. Chuck, no, Charles Brenner and Bruce Wayne. What? N-no, I don't know who he... Uh, okay, sure." She withdrew the phone from her ear and held it out.

"Mister… uh… _Cadet_ Wayne?" She stifled a gasp as she moved her injured arm slightly, but she gave no other sign of discomfort apart from her pained smile. "My uncle wants to talk to you."

Bruce strode forward at once. "All right," he replied, a faint smile playing on his own face as he accepted his phone back. "Don Bressi, good evening…"

* * *

They rode back to the academy, Bruce holding Clara in the saddle with one hand and Schilling's reins with the other. He'd turned his jacket into a makeshift sling. Clara was half-asleep and slumping by the time they arrived.

A black limousine was waiting as they rode through the main gate. Close by, Bruce could see MacInnes and Batman standing beside Vitrelli and a newcomer—a beefy man in a business suit. Bruce's eyes narrowed. He didn't think he'd ever fought this man, but he knew a mob enforcer when he met one. As he and Brenner brought their horses to a stop, the beefy man drew closer.

"She's all right?" he asked, a trifle anxiously.

Bruce nodded. "The wound isn't serious. I'd say her condition is mostly due to stress and exhaustion at this point. Mr…?"

The enforcer passed before the horse and came around to Clara's good side. "Bruno Miglione," he said, holding out his hands. "Here. Pass her over."

Bruce caught Dick's eye for a moment. At his son's quick nod, Bruce complied.

Clara sucked in her breath and her eyes flew open. "Bruno?" she whispered.

Bruno slid one arm easily under the girl's knees as he supported her back with his other hand. "Hey, _carina_."

Clara buried her face in the mobster's shoulder with a sob. "Oh, Bruno," she whispered raggedly.

MacInnes cleared his throat. "There is the matter of some paperwork to be filled out," he said softly. "Could you ask Don Bressi to contact us to set up a convenient time? I can have an officer come round within the next day or so."

Bruno nodded. "I'll tell him." He glanced from MacInnes to Batman to Bruce to the other cadets and officers clustered nearby. "So, that's it. I can take her home?"

MacInnes nodded. "Might want to get that arm looked at again. Just to make sure she didn't do anything to make it worse when she took off before. In fact, our infirmary's open, if you'd like to…" His voice trailed off when he realized that Bruno was already shaking his head.

"Thanks for the offer, Captain, but going by her bandage, she doesn't seem to be bleeding and her uncle really wants her back home. We'll look after her."

He glanced at Bruce. "Sir. I… don't believe I've had the pleasure before. But," a faint smile flickered on his lips, "I've seen what some of my… colleagues looked like after running into you in the past and I think I'm glad we're meeting one another under better circumstances. Thanks for getting her back here."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You're quite welcome," he returned, a hint of a smile on his own face.

* * *

"Bressi's already called to express his gratitude," Barbara grinned at Bruce, who stared out at her from the monitor in the cave. "He said I could let you know he owes you a favor, any time you want to call it in."

Bruce shook his head. "Not necessary."

"I know, but it could come in handy one of these days." She heard the door open behind and caught the almost imperceptible lightening of Bruce's features—a sure tip, even if she hadn't already recognized the newcomer's tread on her hardwood floor. She waved to Dick to join her.

"So," Barbara said, tilting her head up as Dick stooped down to kiss her hello. She kissed him back and then returned to the monitor, her look half-daring Bruce to comment on the display of affection. "The mob war has been averted, for now. Clara's back home, safe, sound, and hopefully, under better protection."

Bruce nodded. "Good."

"I bet Bressi had apoplexy when that enforcer of his told him what she'd been up to," Dick remarked. Bruce nodded; Barbara had been keeping him in the loop and, while he hadn't had time to give her updates the attention he would have in earlier days, he was aware enough of the situation to know what Dick was talking about.

"Not our worry," Bruce remarked.

Dick nodded. "I know. At least, not for now." Seeing Bruce frown, Dick took a deep breath. "She's smart, she's sneaky, and she's proved she can get past Bressi's security. Not to mention fall off the radar for more than three days, with trained killers trying to hunt her down. And if Bressi knows what she can do, then as much as the Families try to keep their wives and daughters out of their business… I think we have to consider that he might want to make an exception down the road."

Bruce nodded. "Hopefully, not. But if he does, we'll need to deal with her at that time."

"Or," Dick said, "we can take steps now. I've been doing some thinking and, as much as we're down a Robin at the moment, I'm not about to bring her into the fold." He noted the relief on Bruce's face and grinned. "Sure," he continued, "she's got skills and smarts. But given our current relationship with the GCPD, I'm not ready to leave myself open for child endangerment charges. To say nothing of how Bressi's likely to react if his great-niece starts coming home with all kinds of bumps and bruises. However…"

"However?" Bruce prompted, when Dick's pause stretched past the five-second mark.

"However, Bressi can't deny that the skills Clara's already picked up are probably what's kept her alive over the last few days. And Helena has been sitting in on some of his council meetings with the Bertinelli contingent."

"I'm surprised that the rest of her family was willing to accept her," Bruce admitted. "As you pointed out, women generally aren't accepted into the organization."

"No," Dick admitted, "but her late father commanded a certain amount of respect. And she doesn't have to hide her skills; her family sent her to Italy after her parents' murder. They know she learned a lot from her cousins and their associates. Long story short, she's there as a bodyguard and they like the idea that she doesn't look the part. It's less conspicuous than if they had a couple of hulking guys flanking them at all times."

Bruce sighed. "Your point?" he asked.

"I'm thinking," Dick said, "that it's no secret that Helena is teaching at the Gotham Academy. It's also no secret that she probably knows more than Bruno about martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. And with the Bertinellis aligned with the Bressis… and the security at GA… Well, what could be more natural than if Tony were to enroll his niece at GA? She'd probably be safer there than in the city anyway. And with Helena there to keep an eye on her and maybe give her some extra coaching…"

Bruce was shaking his head. "Huntress is often on assignment with the Birds."

"That… might not be a problem," Barbara spoke up for the first time.

"Huh?" Dick glanced at her. "Babs? I know that smile. You're up to something, aren't you?"

Barbara's smile widened. "Well, it's not like we didn't discuss having Helena train her, when we first realized what she was getting up to. I knew her work with the Birds could pose a problem, so I did some checking around and discovered that Gotham Academy is currently in the market for a Computer Programming instructor. I sent in my resume and they called me today for an interview." She was grinning now. "It's by no means a done deal. I'm not the only candidate and I might not get the job. But if I do, then even when Helena's off-campus, I can keep an eye on her."

Dick grinned back. Then he turned to face Bruce once more. "I'll defer to Helena's judgment on this one, but Clara may well turn out to be an ally down the road. I'm not about to invite her into one of the Caves or unmask in front of her or anything stupid like that, but as far as some martial arts and other defensive moves? They've already saved her life at least once in the last couple of days. She might need them. And," he added, "it might not be a terrible thing if she got friendly with a few people who aren't part of Bressi's coterie. If she doesn't, it might just be a matter of time before they do bring her in as a bodyguard. Or worse." His face was serious. "Six years from now, I don't want to come up against her as a mob assassin and wonder if maybe, if we had taken an interest at the time, she might have taken a different path." He shook his head. "Just because I'm not planning on taking on a Robin in this climate doesn't mean I want to just… wash my hands and forget all about her."

Bruce shook his head. "No," he admitted. "I can't imagine you do." He sighed. "I will grant that Helena's background probably does give her the greatest chance of success. I'm," he shook his head again, "not entirely happy with the direction you're taking, but I understand why you're taking it. With reservations… I approve."

Dick knew he didn't actually need Bruce's approval anymore. Still, he couldn't fully suppress his smile at his mentor's words. Bruce's answering smile, while fleeting, was no less genuine.

* * *

"Thanks for coming with me, Batgirl," Arsenal said with a smile. Seated beside him in the non-descript van, his companion tilted her face in his direction for a moment. Then she gave a slight nod and returned her attention to the road before them. Arsenal wished he could tell if she was smiling. He found her silence unnerving. She guarded her tongue and her body language as though they were priceless artifacts that might crumble if exposed to light or air. The full face-mask only exacerbated the mystery. The young woman was a cipher, one he wished he could translate better.

He tried being friendly again. "Uh… I know Gotham pretty well, but I'm almost never out in the boonies. I'm glad you know your way around here better than I do."

Batgirl paused and tilted her head once more. Then she gave it a slight shake. "No," she whispered.

Arsenal rolled his eyes. "Sheesh, you shouldn't talk so much," he said sarcastically. "It'll distract me."

Batgirl seemed didn't even turn her head this time. "Too late," she replied. "Here."

He turned onto the side road she'd indicated. There had been a smile in her voice this time. Arsenal grinned. She was falling for him after all! He pulled up next to the gate to the farm. There were no lights on the property and no vehicles outside. The place looked deserted, the farm's iron gate barred and sealed with a large padlock. "Hang on," he muttered. "I'll take care of the lock." He unfastened his seatbelt. "Hey, do you think that kid was exaggerating about the weapons in the barn?"

Batgirl shook her head. "No."

Arsenal rolled his eyes. "Do you always talk this much?"

"Sometimes," Batgirl replied, "less."

He wished once more that she wasn't wearing a full mask. He suspected that she was joking now, but without seeing her expression, he couldn't be sure. He slid out of the van and grabbed a small case of tools that had been lying between the two front seats before shutting the door behind him. It didn't take long for him to cut the chain off the gate, and then get back into the van and drive along the dirt path to the barn.

"Clear view of the stables from here," he muttered, not really surprised when Batgirl said nothing. "Okay. Let's get started."

Batgirl nodded and opened her door at the same time that he opened his. She went around to unlock the back of the van as Arsenal approached the barn.

"I don't like this," he said in a low voice as Batgirl rejoined him. "The barn's unlocked. Who leaves crates of munitions lying around where anyone can take them, unless…" He pulled open the door and cursed loudly. Then he turned on his radio.

"Oracle, you there?" he demanded. "We're at the barn. Either Clara was wrong about the weapons crates… or they've been moved."

Batgirl bent down to the ground and retrieved a small object. The copper bullet gleamed in the beam of her flashlight. Arsenal's eyes widened for a moment. "Oracle," he said quietly, "I don't think she was wrong. We're coming back." He ended the communication and motioned to Batgirl.

"Let's go," he said reluctantly. "Cases of guns and ammunition just waiting to be released on the street. The others are going to _love_ this."

As they turned around, Batgirl suddenly ducked into a low crouch. An instant later, Arsenal felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. A light probably ten times brighter than their flashlights shone into his eyes and he gasped as he closed them. And then he heard an all-too-familiar click-and-slide and a rough voice ordered, "Hold it right there!"


	55. Chapter 54: Dirty Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
> 
> "Kerosene" written by Miranda Lambert and Steve Earle. Recorded by Miranda Lambert on her Kerosene album (Epic, 2004).
> 
> Trigger warning: Implied alcoholism

_Forget your high society, I'm soakin' it in kerosene_  
_Light 'em up and watch them burn, teach them what they need to learn, ha!_  
_Dirty hands ain't made for shakin', ain't a rule that ain't worth breakin'_

— _Miranda Lambert, Steve Earle, "Kerosene"_

# 

**Chapter 54—Dirty Hands**

Tough Tony Bressi stood in the darkened bedroom and looked down on the sleeping form of his twelve-year-old niece. Right now, he didn't feel tough. He wasn't normally a sentimental man, but he felt like waking Clara up, just to give her a hug. He restrained himself. His niece was probably having the first safe sleep she'd had in three days. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn't disturb her now. He smiled down at her, turned, and walked carefully out of the room.

As he closed the door behind him, he motioned to Bruno to walk with him. The big man had parked himself on a chair outside her door and Tony knew that he wouldn't have left that post had the instruction come from anyone else. Even though it was coming from the head of his family, Bruno still hesitated for a moment and Tony wasn't upset at the bodyguard's reluctance.

"The cop who shot her…" Tony murmured.

Bruno shook his head. "I didn't hear a name. But that MacInnes guy who's in charge said he'd be sending someone over here to take care of some paperwork in the next day or so. Might be you'll find what you're looking for on one of those forms."

"Maybe," Bressi frowned. "But maybe not. See what you can discover through the usual channels."

Bruno nodded. "I'll get right on it, Don Bressi."

"Bruno…" Bressi smiled. "It can wait until morning. For now, just keep Clara safe, eh?"

A relieved smile broke across the bodyguard's face. "I'll do that, Don Bressi. Thank you."

As Bruno headed back toward his chair, Bressi's frown returned. Had the shooting truly been an accident, or had the cop who'd pulled the trigger been one of Mandragora's people? He shook his head. It was an interesting question, but he supposed it didn't really matter. The man had shot his great-niece. Bressi wasn't about to let that slide. Whatever the reason, that cop was going to pay for his actions. In kind and in full measure.

* * *

"Take it easy, pal," Arsenal said, keeping his tone level. "You might hurt someone with that thing. Like us."

Batgirl's eyes flicked from her companion to the three men standing several feet ahead of them, all of them toting sawed-off shotguns.

"Keep your hands where we can see 'em!" the lead gunman ordered, his voice thin and nervous. "Do it!"

Arsenal glanced at Batgirl, gave a slight gesture with his chin, and smiled. Although her companion couldn't see it, Batgirl's eyes widened behind her mask and she grinned back broadly in response. Maybe Arsenal couldn't read body language as well as she could, but he could certainly 'speak' it well enough to communicate with her. They both raised their hands slowly. Then, more quickly than their opponents could react, Batgirl pressed a control stud on her glove—a recent improvement to the old costume—triggering a spring-lock mechanism and releasing a batarang into her hand. She flung it, barely needing time to aim, and the curved blade sailed and sank into a pressure point on the lead gunman's arm. The shotgun muzzle dipped toward the ground as the man cried out and brought his free hand to his injured arm.

Distracted by his yell, the other two gunmen turned their heads automatically toward their leader. That was all the opportunity Arsenal needed to reach behind him, slide an arrow from his quiver, fit it to his bow string, and let fly. The arrow hissed, arcing high over their heads. It embedded itself in the barn wall, close to the ceiling. And then came a vibration that raised the hairs on the back of their necks, made their bones tremble and set their teeth on edge.

"Earthquake!" one of the gunmen yelped, flinging himself to the ground. The other two followed suit.

Cass felt her own knees start to give way.

"H-h-hold on… Bat… girl," Arsenal managed. He was fitting a second arrow to his string. As soon as that one hit its mark, the vibrations ceased. One of the gunmen started to pick up his weapon but stopped with a grunt of pain as Arsenal's boot heel stomped onto his hand. "Don't," he said coldly.

He turned to Batgirl. "Sorry about that," he apologized, as she moved forward to disarm the last gunman. He bent down to help her cuff them. "I was trying for a flare arrow, but I must've used my last one." He tightened the plastic handcuffs and noted that she'd already secured one of their erstwhile attackers and moved on to the remaining one. "Didn't have time to go sorting through the quiver so I just grabbed the first one I could and it turned out to be one I shouldn't have fired in an enclosed space."

Batgirl nodded. "Understood."

"Hey!" one of their captives called. "Don't _we_ get an apology, too?"

Arsenal spun about with a glower that might have done the original Batman proud. "That depends on how forthcoming you are with information," he snapped. "The ammo that was here. Where is it?"

The gunman gulped. "I-I can't, man. They'll kill me!"

Batgirl dropped to one knee and brought her face to within inches of his. "We…" she said softly, "won't kill. Just hurt. A lot. Over and over. Minutes. Hours. Days. But never kill." Her tone was almost pleasant. "Never. Too easy. And fun… ends too soon."

The gunman's face had been growing whiter and whiter as she'd spoken. He made a choking sound. "I'll talk!" he gasped. "I'll talk…"

Arsenal smiled nervously. "Remind me not to get on your bad side," he murmured. Then he turned to the gunman. "All right," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Talk. Or I'll turn her loose on you."

* * *

Enrico Inzerillo's face twisted into an ugly scowl as he recognized the caller's voice. "I thought I told you never to call this number directly!" he hissed. "You sure you want our association to come to light?" He listened to the voice on the other end and tried to piece together the caller's ramblings. "Jandt, are you high? Or just drunk? Well, I grant it's a minor setback, but… Hey, stuff like this happens." His voice hardened. "Actually, Neal, you won't. See, you know those… special supplies you helped me to procure? Well, my people already collected them for safekeeping. Don't worry; we know where they are. And we have the paperwork to prove it." He smiled. "The paperwork with your name and your holding company's name all over it. Could be very embarrassing if that kind of thing got out. Politically embarrassing, in fact. Sometimes, Neal, having all kinds of connections… well, it can be dangerous. But I wouldn't worry. Right now, it looks like the only one who knows how well-connected you are is, well, me. And I've certainly got no reason to rat out one of my associates to the authorities. Or the press," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Yessir, Councillor Jandt. So long as we're in partnership, our fortunes are inextricably intertwined. If I rise, you rise. And if I go down…" His voice trailed off meaningfully. "Of course," he went on, "if our partnership were to be suddenly dissolved, well I've got no reason to protect someone who is no longer my associate from the authorities." He paused for a moment, and smiled. "Or the press. If you understand my meaning." He waited.

"Well, Neal, I'm going to take that silence on your end as a sign that you understand the situation. I'll hang up now. But down the road, if I should happen to request a favor, I know you'll be eager to assist. Anything for an associate, after all." He smirked as he heard the click on the other end. "See, I knew you understood. Why else would you save me the trouble of ending the call?" He was chuckling as he slipped the phone back into his inner jacket pocket. To think that a few short days ago, he'd been reeling from his losses. And now… he owned a crap-ton of munitions _and_ a new politician. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

* * *

The meeting was held in a nondescript warehouse at the Tricorner docks. Present were some two dozen men, all armed, though some weapons were discreetly concealed in ankle and shoulder holsters. Also in the room was a computer equipped with a large monitor. As most of the men looked on, one turned on the monitor and opened a Skrype session. A moment later, the face of a man with graying temples and a neat goatee filled the screen.

"Gentlemen," the man said, his face solemn, "I await your reports."

Fixx waved, rather than raised, his hand.

"We aren't in school, Fixx," the man on the monitor snapped. "Speak."

The young man's face reddened, but he took a deep breath and spoke calmly. "By now," he said, "doubtless, word has reached you of the attack at the police academy. I feel safe in saying that none of us were involved. I'd suspect one of the mob families—the Inzerillos or, perhaps, the Mandragoras."

"Interesting," the man on the monitor replied thoughtfully. "And there have been no arrests."

"None," another man spoke up. "Still no idea where the explosives came from or whether there are any more."

The man on the monitor regarded him stonily. "Do you imagine that Mr. Mannheim will be satisfied with that statement? Because if you do, perhaps you ought return and deliver it to him in person."

"Uh…" the other man swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Detwyler. I don't think he would be. Unfortunately, we don't have any leads. Normally, something like this happens and the perps are known. A few rounds at the Iceberg and people start speculating. Now that's been happening, of course, but it seems to be just… smoke. Nobody knows anything. Or if they do, they're not talking."

Detwyler's jaw worked furiously for a moment. "Find out," he said finally. "We need to know who instigated this and why. Was it someone with a grudge against the first Bat? Someone thinking to curry favor with us? If their actions had set off a war in Gotham's streets, who would benefit most? Learn what you can and learn it quickly."

The other man nodded quickly.

"Very well," Detwyler snapped. "Next?"

False Face took care not to let a smile crack his composure. So far, nobody had noticed that he didn't belong. Not even Tencer, the partner of the man he was replacing. And one advantage to working with a partner was that one could allow said partner to do all the talking. Meanwhile, he listened carefully, knowing that Hush would want a full report later. A pity that he couldn't risk taking notes, but he'd been blessed with a fair memory. He frowned and focused his attention on the next report.

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham looked over Cass's practice test stoically, his face tightly shuttered, disclosing nothing. Cass wasn't looking at his face, though. She was watching his slight nods as he went through the papers—he'd insisted on printouts, explaining that he found it difficult to focus on a screen for a prolonged period of time. She refrained from commenting as he rubbed his nose. The gesture indicated that he was suppressing a comment and, much as she wanted to know what he was thinking, interrupting him now would probably get her an icy retort about letting him review her work in peace.

She wondered why she was waiting so impatiently. When she was on a stakeout, she could sit calmly for hours in light meditation, relaxed but alert and ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. Dr. Arkham had spent fewer than ten minutes going over her paper thus far.

He'd been right to create these worksheets for her; by now, she had memorized most of the questions on the review sheets that had come with her study guide. It hadn't been intentional, but she'd trained herself to have a good memory. Until a few months ago, she hadn't been able to take notes and wouldn't have been able to read them. While this was no longer entirely the case, she still wrote slowly and often found that if she tried to do so at a briefing, she missed hearing three points for every one she recorded. It was much easier to leave the notebook behind and concentrate on what was being said. So, she was grateful to Dr. Arkham for the extra study sheets. At least she knew that when she got an answer right on these, it was because she understood the question and not because she'd remembered that the answer to question 5 was "b".

Arkham pinched the bridge of his nose and Cass winced. It was only one error. He was already on the second page and this was the first time she'd seen him make that movement. Of course, it didn't mean that it was her only mistake, just that this was the first one he'd telegraphed. She tried to hide her sinking feeling by pulling the manga book out of her tote bag and burying her nose in it, but the letters seemed to blur before her.

Finally, Arkham set his pen down. "Until you decided to take this examination," he said flatly, "you maintain that you were ignorant of the social studies curriculum, as it is taught in secondary schools."

Cass nodded her head, embarrassed that her lack of education was so apparent. "Yes."

Arkham raised an eyebrow then. "Well then," he said, lifting his chin slightly and smiling, "you either have a marked interest or a marked aptitude. Or both," he added.

Cass blinked. "Sorry?"

Arkham handed the pages back to her. "I simply note that it's remarkable that you've mastered this much of the material in a relatively short span of time."

Cass quickly pushed the upper sheets away and looked at the last page. "Seventy… three?" she asked.

Arkham nodded. "In less than five months, you have successfully absorbed nearly three quarters of the required material. I'm not sure I could have managed so well in your circumstances. In fact, I'm rather sure I couldn't."

She matched his thin smile with a broad one of her own.

* * *

Dr. Alex Morgenstern leaned back in his chair and smiled. "How did it feel?" he asked. "Having a mission again?"

Bruce blinked. "I haven't _not_ had a mission," he countered. Then he shook his head. "But I'll admit that I found search and rescue to be a more rewarding one than jumping through hoops to satisfy the police commissioner that I'm fit to be Batman again."

"And, of course, search and rescue is something you're more experienced with than taking other people's orders."

"I was still under orders."

"And in command."

Bruce glowered. "Yes," he conceded. "Nominally. It was more of a team effort."

Alex leaned forward. "Really?" he asked. "How so?"

Bruce shifted a bit in his chair. "When we found the girl," he said, "I may have known the right things to say to put her at ease, but it was Brenner… the other cadet under my command, who was able to calm her to the point that she was willing to listen."

"Ah."

Bruce sighed. "Go ahead," he said tersely. "I'm sure you won't be satisfied until you mention it."

"What, precisely?"

His glower deepened. "I'm sure you have something to say about the importance of teamwork."

Alex shrugged. "I do, but since you've already reached that conclusion on its own, I'm not sure what you expect me to add to it." He stroked his chin with the back of his index finger. "Is that the only thing that concerns you right now? Because, forgive me for saying this, Bruce, but you seem a bit too tense for the only thing on your mind to be the worry that you'd have to endure another one of my pep-talks."

Bruce shook his head. "The hearing is, in all likelihood, less than three months away, now. And while Councillor Jandt has made no further threats, drunken or otherwise, I'd be lying if I were to state that I wasn't… concerned."

"Do you think there's reason to be?"

Bruce sighed. "While I'd like to be able to dismiss his ramblings as so much static, my instincts tell me otherwise. But I have no idea what he's planning. Or if he's planning anything."

"And…?"

Bruce pressed his lips together tightly for a moment. "And I can't control what he might do and it bothers me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Alex shook his head. "No. But it's something we needed to get on the table so that we can admit what we're dealing with."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "We?" he asked, his tone speaking volumes.

Alex nodded. "I'm not going to insult you by pretending that the outcome of the hearing means as much to me as it does to you, but it's fair to say it's something in which I've a passing investment." He leaned a bit closer. "I don't want Jandt to scuttle things either. And from what I've observed in our sessions together," he added, "there are no _legitimate_ grounds for him to do so."

Bruce nodded and, for a brief moment, his lips twitched in a guarded smile.

* * *

When Dick called the briefing, he hadn't been sure whether Bruce would participate. He'd called it for seven, before patrol, but at a time when Bruce was likely to be home. That was no guarantee, though. The academy course-load was no less-intense now than it had been at the beginning. Bruce's position as squad leader gave him extra duties, including grading assignments and writing up regular reports. All of which significantly cut into his non-class time. (Having been through the Bludhaven Police Academy, Dick knew full well that calling it 'free' time was a gross misrepresentation.) All of which gave Bruce ample justification for missing the briefing, even without one more reason that Dick suspected, but would never suggest to his mentor: it had to weigh on him, watching the people he'd trained go off into battle without him. Dick wondered. He knew Bruce had faith in them, was proud of them… and yet, did it bother him that they were actually handling crime rather well without him? But how did you bring that up? Dick imagined seeing Bruce bristle at the implication.

_Are you suggesting that I want the city to go to hell, so that Sawyer will ask for my assistance? Do you imagine that I want to see you, or anyone else, fail?_

Of course Bruce didn't want that, Dick reflected. But that didn't necessarily mean that Bruce was overjoyed that they were managing on their own. When the academy term was over and Bruce returned to the cowl, Dick, for one, would welcome him with open arms. But wanting him back and being glad that he was didn't necessarily translate into _needing_ him. Time—and crime—marched on, with or without Bruce, though Dick did hope that it would be with. And soon.

So, he was pleasantly surprised when he logged into the video conference from a satellite Cave and saw Bruce's face on one of his monitors. The others—including Huntress and the Titans—were there, too. As was Arsenal. "Glad everyone could make it," he smiled. "We have a lot to cover before patrol," he continued, feeling his smile drop, "and our first order of business, unfortunately, is a doozy."

In the old days, that would be a perfect opportunity for Arsenal to make some wiseass comment. Instead, the former Titan and current Outsider looked grim. He knew what Dick was about to relate.

"We received word that a truckload of munitions was being stored in a barn across the highway from the police academy. Whether they were meant to be used in the attack yesterday, or whether they were simply being warehoused there for some other purpose is unknown. However, last night, Batgirl and Arsenal went back, acting on our tip, to retrieve them—and ran into a few of Inzerillo's people."

"Are we sure?" Wonder Girl spoke up. "From what I've heard, Inzerillo's been pretty much out of it since…"

Dick nodded. "We thought so. But it seems that's no longer the case. At this point, we don't know where that shipment is, but we need to find it fast, before it can hit the streets." There was no argument. Dick glanced from Roy to Cass. "I guess now's as good a time as any for you to fill us in on any details we haven't yet heard."

Roy nodded back. "Batgirl and I reached the barn around eleven last night. The gate was locked, but that didn't stop us for long…"

* * *

"I wasn't sure if you'd still be up," Selina smiled at him from the laptop, where a Skrype session was open. "All those early morning classes."

Bruce smiled back. "I should have called you," he admitted. "But I know that you have an early day as well. And Helena can be… energetic."

Selina laughed. "She gets it from both of us. At least, she doesn't fight me on bedtime, yet." She shook her head. "I'm still a night owl, darling. But children learn by example. I took a cat-nap after supper. Just closed my eyes long enough so she could see that Mommy sleeps, too."

"Did that work?"

Selena shook her head in mock-exasperation. "Of course not. She's your daughter; she knows a scam when she runs across one. But a couple of choruses of 'Puff the Magic Dragon,' and she dropped right off."

Bruce smiled. "She likes 'Leather-winged Bat,' too."

"Of course she does," Selina said with a slight eye roll. "Well, here's hoping you'll get to sing it to her in person before too much longer."

Bruce shook his head. "It's too dangerous for you to come back now."

"It's Gotham, Bruce," Selina pointed out. "It is always going to be too dangerous."

"Selina…"

She held up a hand and gestured for him to stop talking. "The mob, Joker, Penguin, Black Mask, Hush… Hell, Calendar Man might get lucky one day. But that's Gotham. And I love it. And I miss it." Her voice softened. "And I love you and I miss you." She shook her head. "And I want you in Helena's life as more than just a face on a video chat."

"What are you saying?"

Selina took a deep breath. "I'm saying that I'm done with running away. I've been using Helena as an excuse and she's a great one; one you'd never dream of arguing with. But Gotham is home and it's where we belong."

Even as his frown deepened, Bruce felt his heart leap. "But the risk—"

"—will always be there. No matter where we go." She met Bruce's gaze directly. "Or are you forgetting that Wally has enemies, too? Linda's a journalist. Do you think she hasn't stepped on a few toes?" Her gaze hardened. "For that matter, I've probably ticked off a few game hunters and poachers."

"Keystone is still safer."

Selina nodded. "Fair enough. In that case, if I were to ask you to move out here, would you?"

That brought him up short. "Selina, I—"

"I know the hearing's coming up," she cut him off. "I get that pulling up stakes and leaving while that's hanging over you is probably going to cause all kinds of problems. But that's only a couple of months away, now. So after that, would you be willing to make a fresh start in a safer town?"

"I…" Bruce shook his head. "No."

Selina nodded. "That's what I thought yesterday. When I gave my notice at the call center." She took a deep breath. "If you're free to meet us two weeks from tomorrow evening, we're scheduled to land at Goodwin at seven forty-five. If you aren't, I'll see if anyone else can. If not, we'll take a taxi."

Bruce was shaking his head again. "That won't be necessary, Selina," he said heavily. "I'll meet you there." He pressed his lips together tightly. Then he took a deep breath. "I've missed you." The words came out at a rush, as though they wanted to escape before he could hold them back.

Selina smiled broadly enough to show her dimple. "Purr-fect," she beamed. "We'll see you then."

Bruce's answering smile was a bit more tentative, but no less genuine.

* * *

Councillor Neal Jandt didn't know how the half-pint of Bacardi had turned up in his file drawer. He had no recollection of purchasing it. Perhaps, it was Alvin's. There had been a time when he would take his younger brother's coat on the pretext of hanging it up for him, and surreptitiously check the pockets for alcohol. Then, it was a matter of hiding it until it could be properly disposed of. Back when he and Trisha were still invited to tea at Alvin and Michelle's on occasion, he would excuse himself to use the bathroom and go through his brother's bureau drawers, desk, and all the other places that he'd been wont to hide his bottles when they'd been growing up. After all, he was the big brother. It was his responsibility to look out for Alvin and keep him from hurting himself. Yes, this was probably some bottle that he'd liberated from Alvin's dresser ages ago.

Though how it had ended up in the file drawer in his office was a mystery to him.

Maybe Tara had a problem? No, even if his administrative assistant was a closet drinker, it made no sense for her to hide a bottle in the drawer of the filing cabinet in his office. In the reception area, where she could access it easily, and where she was likely the only person to go rummaging through the drawers, perhaps. Not here, where it would be discovered. Unless she wanted to be discovered and this was some sort of cry for help? Jandt frowned. That made no sense. Or maybe it did. It was hard to tell with a splitting headache. It was the damned overhead light. Someone had switched out the bulbs for brighter ones, which were completely unnecessary. The old ones had been fine. And they hadn't burned out yet. They must've changed out his window glass, too, because the birdsong outside was far louder than he'd ever heard it. It wasn't helping his head any.

He got up to adjust the vertical blinds and had to sit down. The room was spinning. Something was very wrong. He realized that the Bacardi bottle was shaking in his hand. No, his hand was shaking. What the hell…? He hadn't felt like this since he'd pledged Delta Tau Chi in his freshman year and gone on his first… pub crawl.

He stared at the bottle in his hand and watched as hand and bottle shook more violently. He knew how the bottle had gotten into his desk, even though he couldn't remember when. He should have listened to Trisha the other night, when she'd tried to talk to him about her concerns. Instead, he'd laughed her off. He knew what he was doing. He was in control. He…

He was in trouble and it was time to call his sponsor. He picked up the phone and, as he did, became aware of a commotion in the outer office. Tara was… not yelling, exactly, but raising her voice and projecting so that it carried. His door opened and two heavy-set men in dark suits and sunglasses filed in, Tara right behind.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Jandt," she said quickly. "I tried to tell them that you were busy, but—"

The second man to enter spun to face her and she broke off in mid-word, her eyes going suddenly wide. "Save it, sister. We've got matters of importance to discuss with your boss."

The first man nodded toward Jandt. "Councillor. Our employer has expressed a desire to meet with you today. He advises that it is urgent he does so, and he will not take 'no' for an answer." He eyed the Bacardi bottle with distaste and a knowing smirk. "You can leave that behind," he added. "I'm sure refreshments will be provided at the meeting."

Jandt felt the color drain from his face as his heart began to thud. This time, he didn't think it was the hangover. Slowly, he unclenched his hand and set the bottle down on the desk. He reached down to open a drawer, but the big man stopped him with a gesture. "Leave it. We have a car waiting."

He glanced over his shoulder at Tara. "Sorry to distress you, ma'am," he said, touching the brim of his hat. "We mean your employer no harm. In all likelihood, he'll be back in a couple of hours. So," he added meaningfully, "there's no need to tell anyone what's just transpired. Especially not the cops. Is there?"

Tara shook her head emphatically.

"Good," the second man said. "We should have him back before you have to go pick up your son from soccer practice at... James Tynion Elementary, isn't it?" He smiled. "You know, you might not know this, but I've got a friend who's a huge soccer fan. He hangs around the school a lot, hoping there'll be a game. And he's got eyes on your kid," he added with a hint of menace. "Just making sure nothing happens. You understand."

Tara flinched. "I… y-yes," she said quickly. "I understand."

"Wonderful," the first man said heartily. "Glad we were able to communicate." He smiled. "So, I guess we'll have your boss out of the office for the next little while and you can… do whatever it is you do. Actually…" He leaned over to the desk, plucked up the bottle and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively. "You should pour yourself a shot," he said with an almost-friendly smile. "Steady your nerves."

Then he nodded at Jandt. "Let's go, Councillor."

Jandt fell into step between them, wishing now that his trembling was only due to the alcohol.

* * *

Cassie Sandsmark was in line at Burger Barn when she saw him. Dark hair, green eyes, a ready smile, and a stiff posture, even though he wasn't in a cadet uniform or one of Bruce Wayne's 'color war coveralls'. She smiled in his direction and he smiled back warmly, but without a trace of recognition.

She was about to walk over and remind him of who she was, when she remembered that she was in civilian attire herself. And while she didn't exactly have a secret identity, she wasn't sure that giving her name in a crowded fast food joint was a smart move. She couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed that he didn't seem to know her, though. She didn't wear a mask in costume. True, she'd styled her hair a bit differently today, but she didn't think a French braid should make her that hard to place.

Maybe she should go up to him anyway—

"Miss? Miss!"

Cassie jerked her attention away from the oblivious Cadet Jeff Maleev and gave her order to the waiting cashier.

* * *

Neal Jandt tried to hide his nervousness as the two men bundled him into the back of a long limousine. He sat uncomfortably in the middle of the bench seat with one of his captors on each side. There was a glass divider separating the back and front of the vehicle, with curtains that kept him from getting a look at the driver. There were more curtains on the windows, drawn to keep him from seeing outside. That unnerved him. It wasn't just that he had no idea where they were taking him. The only time he ever saw a long black car with curtains at its windows…

…It was a hearse.

Perhaps, he swallowed hard, there was a reason why they were using such a vehicle to transport him. He fought to hide his nervousness and wished he still had the bottle of Bacardi.

The man who faced Jandt across a massive oak desk was in his late forties with iron-gray hair and a demeanor that made the room feel at least ten degrees colder. "Councillor Jandt," he greeted him without preamble. "I'm Terrance Halloran. I appreciate your taking the time from your busy schedule to stop by."

"Like I had a choice!" Jandt blurted and then choked off his words abruptly, as he realized that antagonizing this man was, in all likelihood, an extremely stupid play.

Halloran didn't seem offended. On the contrary, he smiled faintly and leaned back in his chair, holding his hands before him at mid-chest, palms apart, and fingertips pressed tightly together. "I know you have multiple obligations, Councillor. I wanted a chance to talk with you without having to fight for fifteen minutes on your day-timer six weeks from now." He smiled. "This concerns a favor you did recently for one of my associates. A Mr. Inzerillo."

Jandt swallowed hard. "I can explain."

"No need," Halloran said benignly. "I'm hardly about to take you to task for helping out a friend. I am curious, though. How were you able to supply his needs so quickly and so admirably?"

Jandt cast about frantically, trying to find the right words. The words that would get him back into that curtained limo, back to his office, back to a time when he'd never heard of Inzerillo, or Halloran, or…

"Councillor?"

"I…" Jandt realized, to his horror, that his mind was blank. "I-I know people."

"Ah," Halloran smiled. "Discreet people?"

Jandt was about to nod, when he realized that Halloran had to have learned of his involvement somehow. And while Inzerillo was the most likely channel, he wasn't the only possibility. "I hope so," he whispered.

Halloran beamed. "Excellent. I should like for you to supply my needs for such items as well. Just as quickly, just as admirably. I trust I can… count on your support?"

Jandt heard the clicks of several firearms being cocked behind him and he swallowed hard once more. As he nodded jerkily, he told himself that he really needed to call his sponsor. As much as he wanted something to steady his nerves, he knew he had a better chance of extricating himself from this situation if he wasn't intentionally ingesting a substance that would affect his judgment.

"Excellent," Halloran repeated. He got up and walked over to a long cabinet against one wall of the room and lifted a glass bottle, more than half-full with an amber liquid. "Care for a scotch?"

Jandt closed his eyes and nodded, telling himself that it was just for politeness' sake.

* * *

Bressi listened impassively to Bruno's report. "And you're sure the Bats don't know," he said, making it sound like a statement, rather than a question.

Bruno shook his head. "Unfortunately, Don Bressi," he admitted, "we have no way of knowing what the Bats do and don't know. But I went through our regular sources and this was what they came back with."

Bressi nodded. If the Bats learned what he was planning, he had little doubt that their alliance of convenience would be over. A shame. He had to admit that he liked the current Batman. They understood each other. And this one had a sense of humor he found refreshing. Another time, another place, a friendship might have developed in time. But this was Gotham. And Bruno had just handed him the name of the man who had shot his grand-niece. Accident or design, the shooter had to pay.

"See to it, Bruno," he said quietly. "Make it look like an accident if you can," he added. "But see to it."

Bruno nodded. "He'll be taken care of."

"Permanently," Bressi added, in case there was any doubt.

"Permanently," Bruno echoed, nodding once more.

The Bats weren't going to like it, but at the moment, Bressi couldn't have cared less.


End file.
